The Cold Light of Day
by yadon
Summary: After Klavier's and Simon's nights both go completely to hell, their paths converge, and ensuring the other survives until the next day becomes the most urgent matter on either of their minds. And then the morning comes. [Klav&Simon bro-ness, light shippyness; heavy angst and frank discussion of mental health/suicidal feelings]
1. Chapter 1

It is not like the Fräulein Detective to be late.

Of course, it is also not like the Fräulein Detective to agree to dinner at an upscale restaurant with him, so as five minutes turns to ten, turns to fifteen, Klavier Gavin thinks nothing of it and orders himself a Long Island iced tea when the waitress happens by for the third time.

Alright, so he's thinking a little something of it. He can't __not__ have Ema Skye on his mind, considering this is the final time he'll be seeing her for—well, that, he's not sure of. It's all dependent on how long Herr Prinz requires her services.

Klavier had refrained—will __continue__ to refrain—from asking if these services entirely pertain to the growth of forensic science in the kingdom of Khura'in. If Ema wants her personal affairs to be Klavier's business, she will see to it, that much is certain.

Over the past year, and especially since she's passed her test and become the forensics specialist she's always dreamed of, Ema has been more accepting that Klavier Gavin exists. What's more, she's been among the people that Klavier can count on one hand who have remained interested in whether or not the fallout following the Misham trial and Kristoph's subsequent conviction has impacted him anything other than professionally.

At least, that's what he took it to mean, when she stopped by his office the first week after he'd returned from his hiatus and told him how, scientifically speaking, a fop without his glimmerousness couldn't really be a fop at all...

...so if there was anything she could do to make sure it didn't fade away...

 _ _Or__ , Klavier had mentally added, __burn out.__

What he'd actually said was less an acceptance of the help she offered, but an apology: for being the one responsible for Herr Wright's situation, for being so high-maintenance and dismissive and myopic.

For—he didn't say it, but didn't need to; she'd bore witness to the schism between them in the courtroom that day—taking so much after Kristoph.

If they could, perhaps, start over?

The truce that afternoon that shifted into a productive, if careful, partnership, and then something resembling friendship, has yes, made him appreciate Ema more as just that: a friend.

But it's also made him realize that, while his flirtations with her had been born from looking for a rebound, something honest has evolved from that. One of the few honest things he could count in this charade of a life of his.

So, in the unlit backstage portion of his mind, there is this catchy, previously unreleased cut waiting to make its debut: where she shows up—well, late now, but fashionably so—and professes that she has changed her mind; she will not leave for Khura'in (will not leave with Herr Prinz) and will stay in Los Angeles. With the LAPD, and __with__ Klavier.

He is __awful__ , selfish for letting such a thought swirl about, fine-tuning it until he's satisfied like he does (or, did) when he writes (wrote) new songs, needing to test their arrangements with his guitar handy.

Even if she is no longer his Fräulein Detective, hasn't been for a few months now, Ema is still his friend and for Klavier to act as though this evening is in any way meant for him... it is disgusting. __He__ is disgusting.

He continues to nurse his Long Island, and is reading over the appetizer section of the menu for what feels like the millionth time (that jumbo crab cake is sounding more and more delicious), when his phone hums, plays a ringtone many would find far too generic for Klavier Gavin.

 ** **Fräulein Forensics Specialist**** illuminates the screen. He pushes up from his chair, weaves to the other side of Oceanaire, to a narrow alcove outside the restrooms, and takes the call.

"Fräulein... Ema..." He corrects himself, and is aware that he sounds breathless. "Is everything... ?"

"Alright?" She finishes. "Yeah, great, actually."

Klavier can't quite place her tone, this sort of dreaminess, ecstasy. He can see the smile splitting wide, her eyes twinkling bright like a gem. Still, there's an open-endedness to her answer, one that could only continue with, "But...?"

"I... Look, fop. Gavin. Klavier." He can picture her fidgeting, rubbing uneasily at a long strand of brown hair. "I can't make it to dinner tonight. Something came up."

She isn't apologizing, he notes that. Which could only mean... "Something... good, __ja__?"

"Lana..." Again, she is smiling, grinning from ear to ear.

Despite the disappointment that stabbed him at first, he is too.

"Lana." He repeats Ema's older sister's name. The former chief prosecutor, so many years ago. Whom, from all Ema talks about her, Klavier feels as if he knows personally. Definitely better than he knows his own sibling.

"Nahyu—...er, Prosecutor Sahdmadhi. He was able to pull some strings, with Edgeworth, with the courts and... she's not supposed to get out until next year, and I mean, you knew that, but she's out now, as of this afternoon." She says this all in one breath, and her excitement is contagious, or would be if Klavier weren't so conceited to pick out the words that affect him, and not Ema, the most.

"Herr Prinz did all that? Sahdmadhi?"

"Yes! I think... I mean, he understands how big a deal it is for me to just pick up and leave, to go to Khura'in to help him and Apollo, and... I guess it's him showing his thanks. And, he also, well... he __understands__ why Lana did what she did, even if it wasn't... the wisest choice, in hindsight. He wasn't even sure if he could swing it, but..." she laughs, in a disbelieving way that is choked with happy tears. "Gavin, my sister's right here, in my apartment. We just spent the last couple hours watching movies, I lost track of time and I..."

She keeps talking, rambling, in the way Klavier only hears when she's explaining some sort of chemical reaction, or alternately, when she used to rant how insufferable his cologne, his outfit, his voice—his __everything__ —was.

But all he hears, all that rings in his head is her emphasis on __understands__ , how Sahdmadhi __understands__. It tells Klavier there is more to it than he knows, than he should know, or at least than should be told to him by a third party over the phone. Ema does not openly reveal to others what he is able to confide in her, such as the fact that he visits a counselor twice monthly to speak with someone who is licensed in handling shattered, casually suicidal, washed-up celebrities. And so, he doesn't expect her to be so careless with whatever Sahdmadhi has told her.

 _ _But they hardly know each other__ , Klavier's ego, the one he's constantly fighting to suppress, argues with him. __How can he understand not just her, but her sister?__

"Gavin?"

"I'm sorry, Fräulein. I'm just thinking."

Or, he's trying to. It's bizarre, there's just a lot of __processing__ going on, that can't seem to complete itself. He has the information, knows what it means, and yet...

He doesn't know __what__ he thinks, and he certainly doesn't know how he __feels__ about all this. Oh, he is happy for Ema, because that is what you feel for your friend when her sister is a free woman after spending nearly a decade in prison.

And yet, that happiness doesn't extend anywhere beyond his smile, anywhere past what's on the surface layer.

He is __not__ happy, because she was supposed to be here tonight.

And Lana should be in prison, because if his attempted finagling to get her out early, to reunite with Ema, failed...

Why, and __how__ , didn't Sahdmadhi's?

"I want to be there tonight, okay? I do," she says after he never elaborates. He believes her. Ema would not tell him, or anyone, anything simply as consolation. Only if she meant it. "I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't. But you get it, right? I..."

"Ema, it's fine. We'll reschedule. For when you return, _ _ja__? A welcome back dinner, instead of a goodbye dinner. It'll be less depressing, anyway. "

Yeah, right. If he's there, melancholy will hang thick in the air, regardless of the dinner's purpose.

"Sure, that works," she says, knowing full well, and knowing __Klavier__ knows full well, that there's no timetable for her return.

Why did he propose such a thing? To give himself a commitment to fulfill, he supposes. Having something to pencil into his calendar keeps him going, in some weird way. If he makes a promise to someone else, like dinner with Ema tonight, or that visit to Themis last year, or his weekly jaunts out to the Cabooze, once on his own but now with Blackquill...

He can temporarily ignore the despair, the hopelessness that has spread through him, a virus. It's what his counselor suggested, if he ever hopes to recover. To keep on with daily life, create a placebo effect of sorts while he tests various actual mood stabilizers, anti-depressants.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it's like now, where, how __verdammt__ stupid is he to think this could work?

Or maybe he's just faking it, this emptiness, if leaving his condo every now and again is all it takes for him to not down a bottle of pills. Who knows?

(Kristoph, probably.)

"Fräulein...?" He blurts out, the beginning of a question he's yet to form. He's only aware that he's been too quiet, too detached, and that Ema should have hung up long ago. This isn't, __shouldn't be__ , a lengthy conversation, but he's the one dragging it out. Making it uncomfortable. Awkward.

"Yeah?"

Klavier pauses. Is it too cliche, too common of a sentiment? But it's all he can think to ask; he has to know. "You are happy, aren't you? Not just about Lana, obviously, but ah... everything. It's what you want, right?"

If they were together in person, this is where he'd expect a Snackoo or five to be flicked his way. "Yeah, fop, it's what I want." He knows she's rolling her eyes, although this time might be the first out of hundreds where she's actually amused and not exasperated. In the background, he can hear the sounds of rummaging. "I have to go. I'm going to pop popcorn with Lana, for the next movie. You know the old-school way, of doing it over the stove? We always did it that way when I was growing up. Anyway, don't be a stranger. E-mail me if you'd like. Hell, visit for all I care. His Ephemeral Holiness has more than enough room for guests in that palace of his. I don't think they have a minstrel, either, if you're interested."

"I'll think about it. Good luck, Ema. And..." Everything he wants to say is about himself, about how grateful he is for her support and how he probably won't e-mail her because if he does it couldn't possibly be about anything positive.

He's terrible, so __fucking horrible__ , and it's because of this that he simply settles on, " _ _Auf widersehen__."

As he says it, Klavier wishes it didn't carry such finality.

* * *

Mere seconds after he returns to his table, the waitress reappears, with the courtesy not to inquire if Klavier is still waiting on the rest of his party. So he reciprocates in kind, and instead of asking for the check, orders another Long Island as well as the crab cake and the "Catch of the Day", which happens to be swordfish.

"Fräulein, you wouldn't happen to have any more napkins you could spare?" Klavier asks when she brings his drink, along with the cocktail napkin set under it. "Oh, and a pen? Inspiration is calling."

She does—or maybe she doesn't really, but it's hardly the most scandalous thing he's requested while flashing one of his disarming smiles—and within the next minute, he has an entire cube of napkins, and a ballpoint pen riddled with more than a few teeth marks.

Even as he's distanced himself from his former career, he hasn't been able to stop the lyrics, the tunes from spontaneously generating. Mentally, that is. It's a switch he can't shut off, doesn't even try to, because letting songs and lyrics, however shite they are, fill in the empty spaces of his mind is preferable to having all his thoughts woven with commentary from Kristoph.

But it's been ages—or, a year, verging close to two—since he's put any of those ideas to paper. Since he's felt they're worth making anything of. He keeps the instruments at home tuned, but more in case he decides to sell them, opposed to playing them. And composing music, writing these lyrics down? Forget about it. The melodies, the words, they get scrambled somewhere between his brain and fingers. And Klavier knows why, knows it's because the whole process of songwriting relies on, ultimately, the consumption of the final product by some type of audience.

Why start something that won't be finished?

Because his counselor suggested that, while it may be painful, might invoke self-reflection that Klavier may not feel completely ready to face, it was important that he find an honest, productive outlet for his endless storm of emotions. Keeping them so close to the vest, to only let them out after Kristoph found the right chord and strummed away at it, was not.

It's a fine suggestion, he knows. But writing for the sake of it, to use music as a private diary, is not and never has been appealing. Even when he was younger, at least he had Daryan, or at times, Kristoph, to share his compositions with, and those moments while the sharing was happening were always the biggest thrill. And eventually, to have his ideas, his creations, out amongst the masses, to have them not only validated, but jammed to, swooned over— _ _that__ was the payoff.

It made him feel like he wasn't alone.

As a songwriter, he had striven to write about two topics he believed to be universal: truth, and love. In the end, it was revealed that Klavier Gavin had very little knowledge of what either entailed.

The jury is still out on love, but he understands what truth is now, as the words—his __feelings__ —bleed out through ink, and he knows that not only will he not share them, but that he has no one to share these revelations __with__.

The __truth__ is that he is a shitty human being, who can't even be __not__ miserable long enough to be happy for one of the few people who still bothered with him.

That Kristoph might have been pulling the strings but Klavier never tried to untangle any knots he'd discovered along the way.

That, as he was long before entering this restaurant, and will be after leaving tonight, he is always...

Alone.


	2. Chapter 2

__Broken... broken pieces taking shape__

 _ _You could... you could have been my great escape__  
 _ _Tragic, never-ending, but I can't stop pretending__  
 _ _That I'll put it back together on my own__

 _ _On my own, that's right; you shouldn't even have to ask__  
 _ _Not my heart, not my soul__  
 _ _Oh baby, just this shattered mask__

 _ _Ach__! Klavier starts to crumple the napkin in his grip, then thinks better of it and flattens it back out, scans it over again.

It's nothing but an unoriginal, steaming pile of garbage. Second-rate poetry that, sure, might earn him hits on websites like Upstream or VideOwn, but for its intended purpose, to examine what is the __inspiration__ behind the words—it is an exercise in futility.

Although, it's something that, at one time, he really __could__ have worked with. Back when he'd had a partner to bounce ideas off of. To dedicate the songs to, even. A __muse__ , if he were being technical, or if he were looking to annoy that muse, who'd sneered that those "faggy lyrics the teenyboppers eat up" couldn't __possibly__ be about him.

(For as much as Daryan protested that they weren't, the way he'd pin Klavier back against the wall and nearly tear his pants clear off... he knew they were.)

But what he'd managed to put down—is it about Daryan, still? It could be about Ema, too. He was thinking about both of them, if only because thinking about himself, __writing__ solely about himself, it's...

So pointless. __He__ is so pointless. Why does he __try__? Not just tonight, but at all. While he doesn't feel worse, he doesn't feel better either. The only thing he __does__ feel is slightly buzzed, having finished off his second Long Island, and full, from a crab cake and swordfish that he's sure were delicious but could hardly taste for how much bitterness still clung to his mouth following his conversation with Ema.

"In the mood for dessert?" The waitress approaches him, and Klavier drags the napkin off the table with his palm, presses it to his leg to hide it. No one can see it, no one __should__ see it.

"Any specials?"

"Oh, yes. Tonight's we have a blackberry cheesecake. And there's an optional __adult__ version that comes topped with a blackberry cordial drizzle. It's a __German__ brand, called..." She plucks the little laminated __Specials__ menu from its metal holder in the center of the table. Klavier could have bothered to read it himself, but, this is her job, __ja__? "Eck-tee Krow-atz... Krohz...?"

Klavier takes the menu from her, reading it with the proper emphases before setting it back on the table. " _ _Echte Kroatzebeere?__ "

"Yes!"

Haha, she is adorable, obviously recognizing him and trying to play up to it. He orders a slice (with the cordial topping), just for the sake of her effort, and before he can stop himself, he asks, "Fräulein __Brombeere__ , what time do you finish your shift?"

"You're my last table tonight." She tucks one of her braids behind her ear, a beaming smile rounding her cheeks. "Then I'm going to the airport. My fiancé is returning from duty overseas."

"I see. A reunion." A smile appears, the same hollow one he'd formed for Ema, that proves, __ja__ , he is happy for her. He is as __good__ and caring as any of the interviews he's done make him out to be. "Congratulations."

"Thanks! Anything else to drink?" She nods towards his glass, which is almost depleted of its contents.

She wasn't flirting with him. She knows who he is, but so what? Doesn't everybody? She was only being __kind__ to him. Friendly, like any good waitress should be, and pitying him, like __every__ human being who's followed the news in the last year has. She didn't __really__ want anything to do with him, and ah, truth be told, he didn't want anything to do with __her__ wanting anything to do with him.

Once more, he is repulsed with himself, so even though he __shouldn't__ , even though drinking for the purpose of loosening up so he can attempt to write is acceptable but __this__ is pushing it, this is __risky__ , what might even fall under the category of self-destructive...

He does.

Because making rational, healthy life choices tonight hasn't gotten him very far, so let's try __this__ instead.

"Another Long Island, __danke__. And the check." He winks at her.

That is what Klavier Gavin does, winks at all the fräuleins, even if they've just told him they are betrothed to another.

He has an image, has a reputation.

He is a __star__ , and stars must shine.

Tonight he's getting close to burning the brightest he ever has.

So bright, that he's dangerously close to combusting, and he can't say no one notices. __He's__ aware, __he__ notices.

But he __can__ say that no one cares.

* * *

It is not even a full minute after he orders dessert that his phone rings again.

For the briefest second, he thinks it's Ema, calling him back, but he sees the number is unknown, or would be if a good two-thirds of Klavier's most recent calls both sent and received weren't from numbers with the same area code and prefix.

Los Angeles City Prison.

Could it be about Kristoph? He swallows, suddenly feeling heady, in a fog, where he didn't before.

No... it's probably just about a case, like it is __every__ time they call, and he fears the worst.

Except he's not on a case right now.

 _ _No__ , it is __not__ always fucking about Kristoph! And to prove it, he answers on the third ring, calm, composed. __Cool__. "Hallo. Prosecutor Gavin."

"Gavin, hi. This is warden Haines, 'kay?" A pause, perhaps allowing Klavier a moment of recognition.

Haines. Klavier knows him; he's only a few years older than Klavier himself. He's a good guy; strange verbal tic, __ja__ , but who is Klavier to judge? And he's usually in a good mood, more than Klavier can say for some of the other wardens. Always had a hello for Klavier back when he'd visit Daryan every week.

 _ _Daryan__ , oh __Gott__ , what if it's not about Kristoph, what if...

"Ah, yes, warden. What can I do for you?" Asks a voice, a stable one that can't possibly be his own.

"There's... well, there's been an incident..."

Klavier rises out of his chair abruptly, creating a screech that draws looks from those seated around him. He ungainly swerves away to the same little alcove that he stood in while speaking to Ema.

"What sort of—"

"Prosecutor Blackquill... he needs to be, escorted off the premises, 'kay? And he's not fit to drive himself, so... this is the number he gave us. His emergency contact."

 _ _Herr Schwarz?__ What in the world could...? "I... I'm not sure I..." He still can't believe this is about __Blackquill__ , or that Blackquill would offer Klavier up as his emergency contact. Finally, he states what was meant to be his first question. "What __sort__ of incident?"

"We can tell you—or, he can, if he wants to—when you get here. Right now, it's most important he leave, 'kay?" Haines lowers his voice, and Klavier needs to cover his other ear to block out background noise. "With someone. He's not... it's not safe, for him to go on his own. And... Sir, between you and me, I don't think it's safe for anyone __else__ if he stays here."

Countless scenarios start sloshing around with all the alcohol and the self-loathing, and Klavier would be here all night if he tried to sift them out and make any sense of them. Blackquill's well-being is important to him, and even if he doubts there's a damned thing he can really __do__ , he may as well just show up. Put in an appearance, and go from there.

"Give me twenty minutes," Klavier says, already heading back to his seat, and hanging up before Haines can finish thanking him.

There is his cheesecake. And the bill, scrawled with a loopy __Thanks__! and the fräulein's name—Nina—complete with a smiley face beside it.

Klavier surveys the restaurant, hoping to flag her down, but she's nowhere in sight. So he drops three fifties on the table, and with the pen she lent him, scribbles a message on a remaining napkin.

 _ _Fräulein Brombeere,__  
 _ _An emergency has left me unable to thank you for your excellent service.__  
 _ _So enjoy the cheesecake, and even more so, your fiancé.__  
 _ _Until we meet again,__  
 _ _-Klavier Gavin__

His name is written as an autograph, and he wedges the napkin under the cheesecake plate. Then, slipping into his jacket, Klavier hurries out of the restaurant as if a breeze whisked him through.

* * *

"You're free to go." Haines unlocks the barred door of the holding cell, a loud iron groan echoing as it slides open.

Blackquill rises from the cot, looking slightly disheveled but uninjured. He appears as he always does, stoic and unreadable, although his eyelids are half-mast. Tired, or maybe just disinterested, Klavier's not sure. Whichever it is, it's enough that he doesn't give any kind of sarcastic remark about being released from the holding cell, just a fleeting smirk Klavier might have imagined.

"You're alright taking him home?" The other warden, who introduced himself as Joel Bray, is even younger than Haines, with big ears and a bigger gap between his front teeth. He's invited himself into Klavier's personal bubble ever since Klavier arrived, and that includes moving so close to Klavier as Blackquill exits the cell that it backs them away, and gives Blackquill a wide berth.

Klavier's gaze follows Blackquill, but it's never returned as Blackquill is—Klavier hadn't noticed them at first, but he sees it now—uncuffed from a set of heavy shackles.

Blackquill's still staring unseeing straight ahead as he rubs at his wrists. When Klavier looks back at the wardens, they both seem truly afraid that Klavier will say, no, he's __not__ alright taking Blackquill home.

" _ _Ja__ , it's no problem. None at all. I thought..." Klavier hesitates, checking Blackquill once more. He was informed that something __happened__ , which to him implies an altercation between Blackquill and... well, the wing he's in is high-security, so not simply a defendant at this point. A convict. Blackquill is dressed casually, and it's evening, after-hours, so that solidifies that his presence can not be explained as part of a current case; this is a personal visit.

Could it have something to do with his sister?

"Yes, Prosecutor Gavin?... Oh, that's right! " Bray mercifully separates from Klavier, leads him to the Haines's desk—and much closer to Blackquill—where several forms are fanned out, no attempt at organization. Selecting the topmost one, Bray moves it to the edge of the desk, and hands Klavier a pen. "Sorry, this is my first time actually having to handle an... incident like this. But here, you know how this works, right? Just sign here... and here...to verify that you voluntarily picked up Blackquill."

Klavier knows this particular form; it's what's used down at the general population prison, when misdemeanor offenders are being held and their bail is posted. Assumably there is no form designed for __this__ specific turn of events, with Blackquill here, so the wardens are simply making do.

"And... I know you know all this, but I'm required to tell you, that if you __don't__ sign, or sign __here__." Bray points to a different line. "That's you giving consent that he's...well, that the prison decides where he goes. I mean, if you felt him too... __unsafe__ to leave, and thought it'd be better if the prison keep him here longer... or... well, if..."

Haines steps in, lowers his voice, as if he does not want Blackquill to hear, but they are all too close together that it's a futile action. "Or that if he should be transported to a hospital to receive further... __evaluation__."

"An institution." Blackquill bluntly corrects, visibly startling the two wardens. His words drag as he continues, or maybe it's the alcohol in Klavier's own system slurring them. "Do you hear that, Gavin-dono? I've bats in my belfry, am a complete raving nutter. Can't you see it, before your very eyes? Go on, have me shipped away to the loony bin where I belong."

Klavier stares, knowing full well this __has__ to be more about Blackquill treating the wardens that they are nothing more than playthings, here solely for cheap amusement. But he is too experienced, himself, in voicing such dark truths through jokes, teasing, if only to see the __reactions__ from others.

Given how Blackquill refuses to filter his thoughts, Haines does the same. He makes no attempt to lower his voice, to sugarcoat an explanation.

"He's been like this all night, completely oppositional. We had to... to sedate him, 'kay? Managed to get him to take some painkillers for the scrapes, and __that__ was a chore, in and of itself. But... I slipped in some of these muscle relaxers I've got prescribed, for my neck." Haines steps away from Blackquill to pop open the drawer at his desk, where a translucent amber pill bottle sits beside a phone charger and rolled-up bag of potato chips.

"You __drugged__ a prosecutor?" Something wakes up inside of Klavier, something that penetrates the gray cloud of misery and booze he's been so snugly encased in. He's never had any issue with these wardens, with __any__ of the wardens, but Blackquill... he is not the depraved criminal he spent so long playing the role of.

He is Klavier's friend, and confidante. Because very few others __will__ be, but all the same...

It is the thread between them, this search for their real identities, and it unnerves Klavier how damned easy it is for everyone to view, and __treat__ , both him and Blackquill as their __old__ selves. As though that's their __true__ selves, and they're fools for trying to make the world, and themselves, believe otherwise.

"Please Gavin, you understand, 'kay? He's been... erratic, we didn't have a choice. It... we didn't want to __hurt__ him, but we didn't know how long it'd be 'til you got here, or if you would... it took ages for him to even give you as a contact. And if he had to stay here all night... this seemed like the most humane thing to do." Whether instinct or not, Haines's hand sets at his hip, where a billyclub is firmly secured at his belt. Klavier's never seen, or even heard of a warden using it on a prisoner, but a lot of things throughout his life have transpired without him being around to witness any of it. "He's still been mouthy, but he's too... loopy now to really act on any of it. We weren't thinking of it like he was a prosecutor at the time, not after... well, we still haven't told you what happened. See, Prosecutor Blackquill assaulted a—"

"I would rather—" Klavier sharply begins at the same time Blackquill states, "I will tell him."

They both stop abruptly, stare at each other for what can't be more than half a second. A half second far too __loud__ and uncomfortable, for what Blackquill is able to tell him wordlessly through eyes that are as empty as the dead air between them.

Klavier needs to get Blackquill out of here. __Now__. He scribbles his signature onto the appropriate lines, and passes the pen back to Haines. "Nevermind what happened. We'll be on our way."

"In a moment, Gavin-dono." Blackquill then looks darkly between the two wardens—or, as much as he can with such weariness. "You've still my belongings."

Bray and Haines don't say anything, just exchange uneasy glances.

"The case files, " Blackquill all but spits at them. "I would like them returned."

Bray speaks first. "Well... Prosecutor Blackquill, considering the circumstances, I—"

" _ _Considering the circumstances,__ you will return them to me __now__ , if you value the use of all ten of your fingers."

Klavier finds himself beside Blackquill at a slight angle, that his shoulder is in front of Blackquill's body. It is hardly enough to prevent Blackquill from going after the wardens, but perhaps it __could__ be, in this addled state he's in. "Gentlemen, let's make this as speedy and painless as possible, __ja__? Please, take Prosecutor Blackquill to gather his belongings."

Both of them give nods of assent, though barely, and Blackquill goes off with Bray again. Klavier notices the sort of slide to his step, as if one or both of his legs are pins-and-needles. Worried, he starts to follow, but Haines stops him, and leads him back to the desk.

"Gavin, hold up, 'kay? You don't have to go along; Joel can take care of himself."

"It's not..." Does he really think it's the warden Klavier is worried about? Blackquill is, though he'd argue otherwise, __vulnerable.__ The image of what Blackquill must have gone though this evening, whether warranted or not, coalesces within Klavier's hazy mind, and he can no longer conceal his frustration. "Warden, I could have you— _ _both__ of you—reported to internal affairs for this. If Blackquill were a prisoner, then I could __maybe__ see what you've done as an extenuating circumstance but—"

"And I could have an officer tail you after you leave, 'kay? I don't think it'd be great publicity for you __or__ the prosecutors' office if you were charged with a DUI."

Klavier swears under his breath—breath that must be strongly scented of multiple kinds of liquor, if he's being faced with a threat like this. He glares at Haines for a few long moments, then turns away, trying desperately to not __hate__ him, not hate either of them because how can he fault them? Both for how they handled Blackquill and the blackmailing of keeping it hush-hush.

It's not entirely different from the vivid memory that surfaces.

Daryan, and Klavier hauling him out of an interrogation after he'd snapped, beat the living daylights out of an alleged (but he'd __done__ it, was undeniably guilty) child molester and murderer. __Oh__ , it was covered up, so neatly, so carefully. Not that an effort wouldn't have been made regardless, but much more urgency was placed on it than if the officer __wasn't__ a famed guitarist with a multi-platinum rock band.

It was determined that the injuries suffered had been while the suspect was in holding, from other inmates who'd caught wind of what he was accused of. __Before__ the interview, that's right, the defense was clearly mistaken, misremembering things. The suspect had spoken with Gavin and Crescend __after__ his eye had been blackened, his nose smashed like he'd been in the midst of a wicked mosh pit.

Klavier had never thought his expertise with audio production would come in handy with manipulating the sound from the interview recording, to alter the voice enough to make it sound as though he were speaking with a swollen jaw and a few less teeth.

The things he'd done for Daryan, at the expense of his own well-being. And the things he'd done because __evidence was everything in court__.

"Prosecutor Gavin?" Haines is talking to him, is inching closer to him, is __concerned__.

Klavier rearranges what is surely an expression worth being concerned __about__ into a smile, a glimmerous one he'd saved for Ema but won't get the chance to use. "Have you heard about Detective Skye and her sister?"

"What...?" Haines is confused for only a second, then gives in to the fact that Klavier Gavin wants to talk to him about something that goes beyond __work__. About a woman, even. "Oh...! Yeah, I did, actually. I was there, saw it, when Ms. Skye was released. It was a really touching, and... but... oh..."

"What, everything went smoothly, did it not?" Ema is the last person to keep harsh truths from him, but Haines's excitement fading so quickly... what else is he supposed to think?

"Well, no, I just... ah, you know, Prosecutor Gavin, I figured since you weren't __there__ , that you wouldn't want to hear about it either. You would have been there. For Detective Skye, I mean. So ah..." Haines must assume Ema and him are an item; it wouldn't be the first time that mistake was made.

Klavier corrects him as succinctly as he can. "Not necessarily, warden." He's not exactly up to having a lengthy discussion about the nature of his relationship with Ema.

"Oh. Okay, well... I just thought, because it's her __older sister__ , you know, finally being released, and because your... he'll never." He's being so __careful__ , that he doesn't need to be articulate for Klavier to know what— _ _who—__ he's talking about. "I thought maybe you wouldn't... that it wouldn't be good. For you to be there."

Klavier wants to laugh. Just... __laugh__. He hadn't thought of that, no, but now he can't __stop__ thinking about it, and he'd turn in his fucking badge right now if it meant Blackquill would return, save him from this debilitating icy __flood__ rushing under his skin.

And no, that can't happen, not the way he hopes. Instead it's the call of "Hey! Chris!" that bounces down the hallway and causes __both__ Haines and Klavier to turn in its direction. Time suspends, as Klavier has to piece together, no, it's only Warden Bray, returning with Blackquill, calling to Haines.

It's not... he wasn't...

Kristoph isn't here. Why would anyone call to him, most especially by the nickname only Daryan used to irritate him?

Because Kristoph is __fucking everywhere__ that Klavier is, as just demonstrated in his conversation with Haines.

All feeling disappearing from his legs, Klavier sinks into the chair at Haines's desk. A sort of whine scrapes back and forth along his throat, won't come out for how tightly clamped his mouth is. He hopes his action of perusing the form he'd been given to sign, pretending he's reading the fine print, is enough to pass him off as __not a complete fucking mess__.

It must be. The wardens make chit-chat that Klavier can't bring himself to care about, but he does steal a glance towards Blackquill, to see how he's faring.

How Blackquill is faring is indeterminable, as he's staring unfocused, out into nowhere, leather folio held possessively to his chest. It's stuffed full, edges of documents poking out. Klavier knows Blackquill to be rather organized, so he guesses that the folio was knocked open, the documents spilled everywhere, and hastily returned.

He goes back to studying the forms, until Haines snaps his fingers in front of Klavier's face, between his gaze and the paperwork. "Hey, Prosecutor Gavin. Are you ready?"

Klavier blinks, looks up at Haines, then over at Bray and the still despondent Blackquill. Judging by the wardens' curious expressions, this must not be the first time Klavier was asked.

"Oh. __Ja__ , good to go, warden." Klavier finds the willpower to stand, and a little bit more to force a fake smile.

"Great," Haines says, not masking his relief. "Oh, and... until this is all sorted out, Blackquill is banned from the prison, 'kay?"

Klavier nods, and somehow manages to bid both wardens a good night. Blackquill remains at his side until they've exited the prison proper, at which point he picks up pace, his longer stride carrying him ahead of Klavier as they cross the lot.

Even with the state he's in, Klavier notices how Blackquill's gait has changed, for how pronounced that change is. He's walking normally; confidently, even. Whatever effects the muscle relaxers had on him, they have either miraculously evaporated... or weren't there in the first place.

Blackquill stops right by the passenger side door, and Klavier learns that it's the latter.

Blackquill doesn't seem to care that Klavier's attention is entirely on him as he inhales deeply, noisily, and turns to __spit__ far into the distance. Under the lamplights of the parking lot, Klavier barely makes out two tiny dots—tablets—as they arc through the air and disappear. Blackquill then climbs into Klavier's convertible, but not before offering Klavier a mischievous smirk—the Blackquill Klavier has grown to befriend in these past several months.

While Klavier's logic hasn't escaped him, even inebriated, he can't puzzle out why Blackquill would fake being under the effects of potent painkillers. He continues to mull this over as he enters the car, turns the ignition, and the confusion must be evident enough that Blackquill sees fit to explain.

Or, at least __speak__. It's hardly an explanation.

"Trust me, Gavin-dono; concealing pills under my tongue is hardly the most difficult thing I've had to hide."

Klavier acknowledges this with a nod, and swallows, steering to the one lane serving as both exit and entrance. He realizes that, honestly, he does not __need__ an explanation, as nothing will prevent him from wholeheartedly believing that Blackquill can not, __should not__ be left on his own tonight.

And __oh__ , how they have so much in common.


	3. Chapter 3

An opening statement is just that: not a question, and it is what, after ten minutes of an __awful__ , weighted silence, Blackquill gives to Klavier.

"This is not the way to my flat."

"I don't know the way." Klavier means to sound firm, but knows he likely only sounds tired. __Done__. And he is.

"You needed only but to ask."

"I don't trust you to be alone, Blackquill. Not tonight." He doesn't trust himself either. Blackquill doesn't need to know that, but one glance tells Klavier he already might. "I can take you there tomorrow." Getting Blackquill __home__ , making sure he's __safe__ and still there in the morning—it means __he'll__ have to stay alive until tomorrow. A sacrifice he's willing to make.

"You will not. Turn this vehicle around immediately, Gavin-dono."

"On the highway? Not possible, I'm afraid," Klavier manuevers his convertible into the upcoming exit lane. "And you should have said something sooner. We're almost to my place, and seeing as how I'm intoxicated, would you really want me to drive any more than necessary?"

Blackquill doesn't answer, which is confirmation enough. Instead, they veer off the highway, and into a veritable maze of side streets that Klavier still finds himself lost upon from time to time.

"You were not supposed to pick me up," Blackquill says as they approach a four-way intersection. They are the only car on the road, and Klavier comes to a full stop.

"You are the one who gave me as a contact." Klavier is not annoyed with Blackquill—he knows ( _ _now__ , anyway) the signs of manipulation all too well. Blackquill is trying to antagonize him, to change Klavier's mind about bringing him back to his condo.

"Yes, but you are busy, Gavin-dono. You have your friends. Your cases. Your... other mandatory appointments." Blackquill knows of Klavier's therapy sessions. They don't really talk __about__ them, but Klavier likes that there is someone who he doesn't have to explain himself to. Someone who knows famed prosecutor and celebrity Klavier Gavin is in dire need of counseling and does not grill, interrogate or even judge him. Outwardly, anyway.

" _ _Ja__ , Blackquill. I have my friends." It is tough to get the admission, __that__ word, out and when he offers Blackquill a smile, a weak one is all he can manage. But it falls away immediately, and a chill settles into his bones when it is returned with an almost __hateful__ glare.

"You were __not__ supposed to pick me up," Blackquill repeats, harsher. Angrier.

They are having completely separate conversations, and there is a flare of anger inside of Klavier too. Not at Blackquill's tactics, but why can't Klavier just __know__ things, figure them out himself? Why does the truth always need to be __explained__ , or __revealed__ to him? "Then you should have had Fräulein Cykes come get you; she is far more capable of handling your... shall we say, capricious behavior than I am, __ja__?"

"You will not bring Athena into this. She is at the movies with Miss Woods and I would not dare disrupt her evening for __this__. You are the only other person whose contact information I even have. That is, besides Edgeworth-san, and he will find out soon enough. I chose the least likely person to come and collect me; all that mattered is those wardens buggering off."

Is Blackquill meaning to insult him, to __twist__ their conversation, or is he being honest? His fingers tap the steering wheel, a rhythm more fitting for drumsticks on a snare's skin. He doesn't say anything.

After what might be twenty seconds, Blackquill says, "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Gavin-dono."

"You didn't __inconvenience__ me. If anything, it sounds the other way around."

"Quite. Now you understand your grievous error." Blackquill is verging away from the subject, taking advantage of Klavier's dulled senses to slip out of answering. And Klavier is powerless, can't stop Blackquill as he continues. "If you wish to atone for it, you can start by giving me the keys, and allowing me to drive us back to my flat. You are in no condition to."

This is different, an alteration of his previous request. Not for Klavier to drive him back to his apartment, but for he himself to take the wheel. The more Blackquill demands control, the less he truly has, and Klavier takes this to mean he is not at the complete disadvantage Blackquill would like him to think.

So, to prove he is __absolutely__ capable of driving, Klavier eases his foot off the brake, lets the car inch forward a couple feet, slow, then presses the gas pedal. Blackquill's intense glare is on him; he can feel it, burning hotter than a spotlight. And he willfully ignores it, crossing another intersection before Blackquill speaks up once more.

"When you inevitably did not arrive, I wanted to have full command of my senses once the wardens decided to leave me be. But then you showed up, and in a state such as __this,__ complicating it even further. You have foiled my plans and I... I despise you for it."

 _ _Inevitably__. Blackquill hadn't faith in him? Oh, hah, but who did? Blackquill had thought Klavier was going to abandon him; it was all he knew, after all. All he'd __learned__. Why __wouldn't__ he emulate his brother? He certainly didn't know how to be himself.

How is he supposed to respond to this? The logical part of him, barely there through his alcoholic fog, argues that this is all Blackquill's carefully plotted internal script; he has innumerable replies, monologues, prepared for whatever Klavier has to say, all an attempt to avoid any true admission of what played out tonight. Which means Klavier should not take any of this to heart.

But the other part of Klavier—the part aching so terribly, wanting just to see his friend out of harm's way and __resolving__ whatever it was that led to Blackquill being held in a cell, becoming so unruly that he was forced a sedative—is so much more powerful.

"As long as you are safe, __Herr Schwarz__ , then you may despise me all you want. I'm no stranger to ill will."

"It is your own safety you should be most concerned about, Gavin-dono, should you continue to disobey me." Blackquill's voice twists into a sneer. "But then, you are no stranger to selecting rather unfavorable company, are you?"

A spark inside him hisses, crackles, __explodes__.

"Stop playing games with me!" Klavier slaps at the steering wheel, heel of his hand hitting the horn.

Beside him, Blackquill sits up a little straighter, looks more alert. Sharp, focused, like a bird of prey. Staring at Klavier.

Klavier stares back.

He did not mean to snap __at__ Blackquill, but he'll never have the opportunity to direct it at who is rightfully deserving. Not without repercussions, not without being __crazed__ or __disturbed__ or anything except justified for doing so.

Blackquill's expression is something Klavier can't put a name to, but it __hurts__ , is more painful than his words, because it tells Klavier just what he'd been seeking: the truth. It should be comforting—that Blackquill seems to have reached this understanding, of __what__ Klavier is feeling, of his outburst being a product of absolutely nothing from this night. Blackquill has always been clever like that, but this can not be something he's derived by intuition alone.

And then, a word bubbles to the surface, a horribly __exact__ description of the look on Blackquill's face, that matches Klavier's perpetual state. That explains __what__ happened tonight.

 _ _Haunted__ , his brain says.

" _ _Geist,__ " his mouth says, not really __to__ Blackquill even though he's still facing Blackquill. Blackquill's lips part, but he says nothing, only raises his eyebrows a fraction.

The car is still moving, or it must be, because in the next split-second, __everything__ is moving. Blackquill's glance out the window, "Gavin!", Blackquill lunging at him, no, the steering wheel because he's not wearing his fucking seat belt and the swerve and Klavier mashing the brake as Blackquill's shoulder collides with his and the squealing and spinning and they're in the middle of the intersection facing the complete opposite direction.

The ignition is turned off—it must be Blackquill, because Klavier can't operate a single part of his body, except for his eyes. His gaze slides off to the sidewalk where a woman, no, a __girl__ is standing with a small dog scooped in her arms.

Oh __Gott__ , he's so sorry, he's so so sorry and he hates himself, please forgive him.

Is what he wants to say, wants even, to __mouth__ but he can't, his body won't let him. She is in tears, he can tell by the shaking of her shoulders, and she buries her face into the dog's body, takes off down the sidewalk. Klavier sees her disappear around the next corner, where she undoubtedly must live.

 _ _Live__.

He almost took an innocent life. __Lives__ , even, as he could have hurt Simon. Simon, who'd been through so much already, let himself __suffer__ for seven years—Klavier could have wiped that all away from him in the blink of an eye.

 _ _He is turning into Kristoph__. He can fight against it, go to therapy and self-medicate in every way possible, but Kristoph's influence on him... it will never end. Even when Kristoph is executed, the blood they share will still run through Klavier, and blood can't be scrubbed out.

"Gavin..."

 _ _Ja__ , that's his name. Kristoph's name.

"Gavin," Blackquill repeats, this time setting his hand is on Klavier's shoulder. "You said... we are nearing your condo?"

Tears seep from Klavier's eyes. He swipes at them, and his hand comes away streaked with eyeliner. Right, he'd wanted to look nice for Ema tonight. It feels so long ago.

"Gavin?"

"Another block, down to the very end of the drive. Not even two minutes." He gestures forward, then, realizing they're turned around, motions behind them. He doesn't know why he needs to tell Blackquill this, but he does. "I'm tired. I'm... I'm __so__ tired."

"Yes. Then allow me to drive us there." Blackquill doesn't wait for any answer, and opens the passenger door, exits. When he opens the driver's side, Klavier still hasn't moved and Blackquill reaches down to unclip the seatbelt. "Come, Gavin-dono. If you are so tired, the sooner we arrive at your place, the better."

Klavier puts one foot out of the car, then stops, looking up at Blackquill. This might be his only opportunity to really __ask__ him, but the words won't come out. All he can say is a pathetic, choked-off plea. " _ _Tell me__ , what you... __why__ I was not supposed to pick you up. I don't even understand what you mean. I don't understand... __anything.__ Please, Blackquill."

"Your condo will be a far more appropriate setting in which to discuss this matter. Out." Blackquill takes him by the arm.

Without struggle or protest, Klavier allows himself to be helped to his feet. He rounds to the passenger side, climbs in. Blackquill's case file is gathered into his lap, and Klavier busies himself with smoothing them into the folio as Blackquill starts the car up.

As Klavier estimated, they arrive in the parking garage attached to his condo in less than two minutes. They don't speak as Klavier trades Blackquill the folio for his keys, as they take the elevator to the fifteenth floor, or as they walk along a hallway far too brightly lit for Klavier's liking. If he were to sneak a peek over at Blackquill, surely he'd be able to see the misery staring back at him as though he were looking in a mirror. What would Blackquill see? Or, he must see it already, as he did after Klavier's outburst. But it betrays his actions, his insistence to __stay__ , to comply to Klavier's command.

Unless... it's he who is now following Blackquill's command. Yes, that's it. This is just an extension of the ability that serves him so well in court, lulling Klavier into an emotional complacency with all his suggestions. Klavier can already foresee how the next morning will transpire: he will awaken and Blackquill will be gone, without a word or note.

The only thing Klavier will have to show for this night is a headache and another hole in his heart, another piece he gave away that poisoned the recipient.

Poisoning them. Just like Kristoph.

" _ _Wilkommen__ ," he tells Blackquill, unlocking his condo's door. They enter, and he tosses his keys onto the island counter in the kitchen. Blackquill does the same with his folio. The living room and its large suede-blend couches are in plain view, and Klavier indicates it with a vague motion. "Make yourself at home."

Blackquill studies the living room as if it contains evidence he is searching for. He starts towards the sectional couch, but stops, turns to Klavier. "And where will you be sleeping?"

He hasn't thought this through. "I take it you'd like some privacy after so many hours of being monitored tonight. So, I will be in my room. I trust you to not do anything rash."

"But I can not say the same about you. As such, you shall not leave my sight. So no, you will not be sleeping in your room, unless I am as well."

Is he offended? __Nein__ , after the almost-collision, Blackquill has every right to be observe him so closely. Klavier has learned to pick his battles, and this won't be one of them. They'll be rid of each other in the morning, anyway. The sooner they get to sleep, the sooner it'll be over—this night, and this friendship. "Then I can take the loveseat, __ja__? Does that satisfy you?"

The loveseat is just barely long enough to fit Klavier, all stretched out, but he can't imagine it being more uncomfortable than anything else he's felt tonight.

"Yes."

Klavier nods. "I'll go grab some pillows."

"And I'll assist you." Blackquill follows Klavier down the hall, but stops when Klavier detours into bathroom before reaching his bedroom. From the hallway, Blackquill asks, "You keep your pillows in your bathroom, Gavin-dono?"

"No, but I keep the toilet there. A moment, __bitte__?" Klavier shuts the door behind him—or, he means to, but it doesn't close. Blackquill's foot jams between it and the frame.

"I think not." He folds his fingers around the door, inches it open enough to poke his head in. Klavier's own hand is at his fly and Blackquill clearly couldn't care less as he all but spits at him, "You will __not__ close this door."

His presumption that Klavier might take drastic measures is wrong in this instance, but it is not unwise of Blackquill. There's been many other nights where Blackquill would have been __right__ , to do this. Where Klavier hasn't even opened his medicine cabinet to grab mouthwash or face cream, lest he be tempted by the rows of various pills.

Blackquill's foot disappears from between the door and frame, his steps echoing down the hallway. Once certain that Blackquill isn't __listening__ , Klavier hurries, doesn't even towel his hands off after washing them. He's shaking them dry as he turns the corner to his bedroom, and yelps out a curse as he nearly bumps straight into Blackquill, who is leaning against the threshold.

Blackquill doesn't apologize for startling Klavier, and neither does he move. And when Klavier mutters "Excuse me," and tries to slip into his room, Blackquill blocks him off.

"I owe it to you to explain myself, Gavin-dono." There is nothing hesitant about his tone, but Blackquill's expression says otherwise. Klavier is so close to him; closer, maybe, than __anyone__ who isn't an officer of the law or Athena Cykes has been in months. There's a heat bristling around him, but when Blackquill speaks, it's so __cold__ and steely. Like a blade. "You deserve to know why I did not wish for you to come and pick me up tonight. I apologize for burdening you, by being so evasive. I took advantage of your good nature, and used your own sword against you. It was wrong of me."

Klavier wants to accept it. Not necessarily __believe__ Blackquill, but verbally accept his apology so he can get to his room, his pillows. Through another sleepless night and to the next date on the calendar, that he can ****X**** off. Or maybe, he'll circle it, as a reminder: the day Simon Blackquill leaves his life. Hell, even without scribbling onto a calender, he'll remember it, though he doubts Blackquill will.

"I don't... I don't care now," he says, not meaning it exactly the way Blackquill appears to take it, with how he blinks. "When they said there was an incident between you and an inmate... it was __Geist__ , wasn't it?"

"Yes. I... I don't remember it happening, but..." Blackquill stretches his arm out, flexes his fingers into and out of a tight fist. "My body remembers. My hand still aches. I am not a violent person, Gavin-dono. I am not...I am __not__...!"

"Enough, Blackquill. I can't imagine you want to relive it, especially so soon, by explaining it to..." __A friend__ , Klavier almost says, but amends, "...to me. I would hate for you to have to expend any more time and energy on yet another person you... what was it? Despise?"

Blackquill frowns, and it is actually __sad.__ "It is called projection, Gavin-dono. Where one takes their feelings about their own person and wields them, often quite violently, at any nearby target. They are hardly ever true. In this case, they are lies; absolute slanderous lies. I do not despise you, I despise that specter who dares to walk among humanity as if he is one of us, and most of all, I despise myself. Not... not you. I could never."

Klavier's heart leaps, more than he thought it could anymore. "Er... thank you, Blackquill. I wish you didn't hold such an opinion of yourself, but... thank you."

"Yes. And because of that, I can not in good conscience allow you to leave my sight until the morrow, at the very least. Nor should you want me to leave yours." Blackquill takes the smallest step backward, into Klavier's room, swallowed enough by the darkness that his face is obscured. "That is what I meant when I said you foiled my plans. If you hadn't made an appearance, I..."

Blackquill pauses, and in that gap of silence, Klavier knows what is next. He starts to say, "Don't..." but Blackquill is already finishing it.

"I would have killed myself."

Blackquill doesn't even wait for Klavier's response, and turns, disappears into the bedroom. Entering after him, Klavier finds Blackquill laying down with his legs off the edge of the bed, bent at the knees. He's still talking.

"I wanted them to think I was incapacitated by the sedatives. When they came to check on me again, I would have sprung an attack on them, fought one of their guns away—likely the younger one, Bray. He's plainly still skittish and would have been ill-prepared to fight me off. But I would have done the deed there. __Executed__ it swiftly, cleanly." Blackquill laughs, or what Klavier assumes is a laugh; it's entirely void of any humor. "Or, I suppose as __clean__ as it could possibly be."

There are a hundred questions dangling in Klavier's mind, some more within reach than others. He decides it's useless to press Blackquill further on this subject, because what ultimately matters is: "Do you... __still__ feel the need to...?"

Because it does grow so strong, that it becomes more than an urge; a __need__. And the only thing more agonizing than the idea of how much it would hurt to commit such an act, is the life that continues because of being unable to do so.

"Not at this moment, no." Blackquill is still laying down, talking up towards the ceiling, even as Klavier carefully lowers to sit down beside him. "It's... peculiar, I think, because if I'm speaking honestly, I really do feel this way—suicidal, that is—nearly all the time. But it's not... active, you understand? Such as, when you almost struck that girl with your vehicle, my instinct was to save myself, save __you__. Some part of me... I want to live; I've been given the chance to, where others have not. But it... the __thoughts__ , I would say they return, but they never completely leave—haven't for years, since I was in the clink. I was sentenced to death, and I never thought it would be so much more difficult to, instead, be given __life__."

Klavier wants to say something, that is maybe profound or __not__ utterly trite and insulting. The best he can come up with is what he's told his therapist, and no one else.

"It's like having a song stuck in your head." Such a comical way to describe it, but he hasn't found anything more fitting.

Blackquill shifts beside him. "Oh?"

"You're going about your day, __ja__? And it's not there, or, you think it isn't. But then it __is__ , the same line or tune over and over. And maybe you haven't even heard the song for weeks, but... __there it is__ , and it just plays on a loop." Klavier flops back onto the bed, joining Blackquill, and laces his fingers across his chest. After a few seconds, he tells Blackquill, "You know, I always wonder why they say people who kill themselves are selfish. I've always thought I'd be unburdening those who know me, which... I imagine you think of it in the same way."

"I believe it comes from people trying to absolve themselves of having any involvement in the decedent's decision. The victim was, clearly, so selfish that nothing they could have done or said would have been of benefit. That is not to say they are __responsible__ for it, but it... it is easier to accept one's suicide if you can convince yourself they would have done it, regardless. Now, if you were to take your own life, I would in no way think you selfish."

Klavier glances over to Blackquill; his dark eyes glint, but it couldn't possibly be moisture, from tears... could it? "What __would__ you think then, __Herr Schwarz__? About me?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know if I'd think much at all. I..." Blackquill inhales a deep breath; it sounds sticky, wet. "Simply, I would miss you. So terribly."

It's so brutal, Blackquill's honesty—which is what encourages Klavier to return the favor. If he doesn't tell the truth now, when else will he get the opportunity? "Don't get me wrong, I enjoy our weekly get-togethers, but...we've led such different lives, Blackquill. I don't see how anything we talk about is so important to you that you would allegedly 'miss me terribly'. Although, I am touched; I mean that. Just, shocked."

"But that's what I mean; we __don't__ talk about anything important, Gavin-dono. It is tiresome, to always be discussing such topics. Or, even, be assuming others are expecting me to be troubled by them day-in and day-out, as if there can not be an hour or two where I have what might be considered a normal life. I would miss that, and... I have to remind myself of it, yes, but I believe you and I are alike, in this aspect."

Blackquill is __so__ right, and it's mildly irritating. His precision with words is comparable to a surgeon, and if Klavier wasn't someone who knew how Simon Blackquill operated, he would feel emboldened. Which would allow Blackquill, too, to feel victorious; he's gotten the last word in, soothed Klavier's rattled nerves to an acceptable degree. Brought the subject to a close, that there is no __reason__ for Klavier to pry for the truth any further.

And maybe, a year ago, Klavier would have been fine with this. Even, a couple months ago, before Justice bowed out of his life, and now Ema. Before the visits to Daryan became shorter, and the silences between them grew longer.

Blackquill has still not acknowledged the gravity of what he __did__. Placing his fate in Klavier's hands—allowing Klavier, and to a degree, Ema, to be responsible for whether or not he survived the night. His actions contradict the affection he wants to heap on Klavier and their burgeoning friendship. He does his best to keep his tone void of any accusation, as if he's questioning a witness on the stand. "Did you think about how much I would miss it when you were busy plotting to ambush the wardens, and turn their pistol around on yourself?"

For once, Blackquill is speechless, lacking an immediate response. His formidable armor of suggestions and articulation suffers a debilitating blow.

"I forget how good you are, Gavin-dono; I should not underestimate you. My apologies, it's second nature for me to be so... __avoidant__ , when it comes to my own troubles." Still, he is fishing for Klavier to protest, that __no__ , it's alright! He needn't peel away the protective shell around his wounded soul, if it would hurt too much!

"Answer me, Blackquill. When you said you owe me the truth—that is not some sort of one-time deal. We both owe each other the truth, if this is to... to continue."

Blackquill exhales something half-groan, half-sigh. "I... Fine, yes. I __did__ think of it. It was wrong, and manipulative, and I was not in my right mind. As I've said, I __want__ to get better, but after what I let that foul creature accomplish... not just over these past several years, but tonight, I couldn't believe anymore that it's something I could do. So, after having created evidence of my own proving how incapable I was of being the honorable warrior Metis Cykes trained me to be, and the one Athena deserves, I made a sick bargain with myself. That if you showed up, it would be evidence of the contrary. It was a..."

Blackquill trails off—what he wants to finish with, Klavier knows sounds so cliche. Corny.

And true.

"A cry for help." Like Klavier's own—busying himself with __appointments__ and __visits__ , forcing a life onto himself yet spending so much of it idealizing the alternative, of dying. And hoping someone __sees__ how forced it's all been. No one has.

Except...

"Yes," Blackquill whispers into the darkness of Klavier's room.

Klavier nods slowly, the best he can while laying down. Maybe it's still the alcohol, but he feels so... __light__. Like he's floating above, __around__ the bedroom. He can __see__ himself closing his eyes, can __see__ Blackquill shifting beside him, up into a sitting position. It's the same suspension he used to feel while rocking out at a concert, but this is less... __intense.__ Not something that he crashes down from, just... like he's kind of __stuck__ there with no control of whether or not he can escape from it. __Ja__ , what did the therapist call this? Disassociation...? Anything with a __description__ he takes to mean as something he needs to "work on", or "learn to cope with", but this... it's not so bad.

"I thought we were grabbing pillows," Blackquill says, bringing Klavier back to this plane, to being Klavier Gavin. It's rather abrupt but not painful in any sense.

Klavier peeks one eye open. It, and his whole __face__ , feels sticky from the smeared mix of makeup and dried tears. "Mm, __ja__ , that was the plan," Klavier says, though not moving an inch. "But as tonight has so brilliantly illustrated, plans change. I... I trust for you to sleep on the couch without my supervision. It's actually much more comfortable than my bed. The throw blanket on the sectional is cashmere, too."

Blackquill chuckles, but then glides into a quiet seriousness. "I was instead going to suggest that... if you would like to sleep here for the night, I can stay with you. Or, I would feel... __better,__ if I could do so, you understand? I still want to ensure your well-being, Gavin-dono."

There's no point in arguing anymore; Blackquill will do as he sees fit, and Klavier can not blame him, even after their discussion, for wanting to monitor him. " _ _Ja__ , that's fair. Do what you feel needs to be done."

"I should inform you, however: I do not often sleep, myself, but I can try. As it is, I will likely lay here through the night."

"And watch me? I've had that happen twice..." Klavier pauses. "No, wait, there was that __hausfrau__ during our __Love and Other Felonies__ tour who climbed the scaffolding outside our hotel and staked us out all night. So, three times. And all resulted in restraining orders. And I warn you, __Herr Schwarz__ , I have no issue filing the paperwork to make you number four."

Klavier no longer has to grab for any pillows as Blackquill swats one down on him. "Sleep. For if you don't, how will you then awaken to a new day?"

And for the first time in what feels like forever to Klavier, such a prospect is not heart-crushingly unappealing.

* * *

Or, it isn't, until it's two AM and Klavier finds himself unable to shut his eyes for more than a couple minutes without the night's memories—the songwriting and the booze; Nina, the not-flirting waitress; the phone calls, _ _both__ phone calls; the __girl he almost killed__ and the friend who almost killed himself—worming their way into his exhausted mind.

Blackquill is still laying beside him, on his side and facing away from Klavier. He is stretched out in one long line, stiffer than Daryan's hair on concert nights.

It's a wonder Blackquill can spend hours unoccupied, simply __laying__ there, nothing to stimulate his thoughts or senses. But then, wasn't that what prison had been like? Blackquill must have acclimated himself to it, unlike Daryan. It was what he complained about the most, still does—how there was __nothing to fucking do__ except go stir crazy, alone with your own thoughts.

Not that someone had to experience life in a literal prison, to suffer such punishment.

Deciding to stage his own temporary jailbreak, Klavier nudges Blackquill and tells him that he is going to the bathroom again, this time for a shower. A very long one, he makes sure to mention lest Blackquill grow concerned about his prolonged absence.

Showering is... he's not in need of one, but it somehow feels entirely necessary, rinsing himself off. Mentally catalouging everything that had been discussed, what hadn't; it occurs to Klavier that he had at no point done or admitted anything as forthright as Blackquill, at least not tonight, that would merit Blackquill's hawk-like surveillance of him. All he can deduce is that, despite being only moderately intoxicated, it's the most far gone Blackquill's ever seen him, and he felt a certain accountability, to not leave Klavier, self-professed __emotional__ drunk that he is, to his own devices.

A strange warmth rises in Klavier's chest, low and muddled but familiar enough that he knows, __fears__ , what it could mean.

The fear lodges unpleasantly behind his sternum as Klavier hunts through his walk-in closet for something to sleep in. Usually, he sleeps in his boxer-briefs, if anything at all, but Klavier somehow guesses that Blackquill would not be very accommodating of that, regardless of how much they've emotionally bared themselves to each other. Throwing on plaid pajama pants and a clashing navy __Wonder Bar__ t-shirt, he ties his damp hair up into a messy half-bun and crosses back to the bed.

He stops in his tracks at what he sees.

Blackquill is asleep. His breathing is slow, steady, and his body is no longer ramrod straight. He's on his back, arms loosely dropped to either side, both bent at the elbow in varying angles. Like wings. Even his face is relaxed, mouth parted slightly, a rhythmic rasp slipping from it every few seconds. Though still bound in a tail, his wild mane of hair can not be contained. It encroaches on what had been Klavier's spot on the king-sized bed. The warmth inside Klavier grows, as does the fear. He swallows, and is shocked it doesn't wake Blackquill, at how loud it is in his own head.

Blackquill is handsome. He'd always thought so, objectively, even those years ago. But it was always a matter of, well, he's not __unattractive__ , therefore he must, in some sense, be good-looking. And that was that, nothing Klavier particularly __cared__ about because there were many people he found attractive to some degree. He understands now, what Ema meant by glimmerous, even if it'd been hardly complimentary. It's how he sees Blackquill, so well-defined in the darkness of this room and this __life__ of his. And he's thoroughly unsurprised at himself.

Ach, he's always been so __easily__ drawn to others: Daryan, Forehead, Detective Skye, and now Blackquill? He curses himself for being so... __predictable__. Not just for falling—not fast, not hard, but falling nonetheless—but for being duped. Blackquill is tricking him, as he's so skilled at doing. He has trained himself to awaken at any moment, to be out of bed in an instant and whisk out of the condo swifter than the raptors he so adores. The shard of fear in Klavier's middle turns to ice, as Kristoph tuts his disappointment.

Why won't Klavier learn? Why won't a __brother of his__ , the same flesh and blood and DNA, realize what he, Kristoph, mastered years ago: the art of not only surviving, but independently so? Is he __that__ helpless, so incompetent in making his own mark that he __has__ to use others—possible relationships with them—as a crutch, to see him through?

A crutch that always splinters apart and leaves him, deservedly, more broken than before. The company he chooses to keep—it is all a reflection of how weak Klavier is when his rock star persona is stripped away; they all choose to, in one way or another, leave him.

He is unnecessary, because he is unable to fashion himself into anything remotely useful. And tomorrow will be another reminder of it, when he awakens to an empty room.

But he... __no__! Klavier interrupts his distorted thoughts with a new, melodious chord, and climbs into bed, taking great care not to disrupt Blackquill.

Blackquill... he needed Klavier tonight. Not just __anyone__ , but __Klavier__. And from all the consequences that will arise, it sounds like this __need__ could extend beyond just tonight. At the office, yes, but also outside of it. Klavier can't make __entirely__ sure of it, but...

Actually, there may be a way to, Klavier realizes as he arranges himself to avoid pinning down the ends of Blackquill's hair. It's a nebulous plan at best, and generates only more questions for Klavier, as it surely will from Blackquill tomorrow... or, it is tomorrow already. So, later. This new day Blackquill has spoken of.

The calm, consistent measure of Blackquill's breathing answers at least one of those questions, and at some point, with the weight and comfort of Blackquill beside him, Klavier drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Which he doesn't recall, but he must have, because when he opens his eyes again, his bedroom is streaming full of sunlight and that weight—Blackquill—is not there. Klavier rolls from his side to his back to find...

Blackquill, standing beside his bed, a grim smile crossing his face and a six-inch serrated knife tight in his grip.

"Good morning, Gavin-dono."


	4. Chapter 4

For as much as Klavier has contemplated dying, he's never once entertained it being at Simon Blackquill's hand.

A shriek reminiscent of his teenage fangirls, a useless thrash, and Klavier is on the floor, very much alive and covering his disheveled hair with crossed arms.

Blackquill unleashes a dark laugh, and cautiously prods Klavier with a booted foot. In a completely deadpan tone, he commands Klavier, "Rise and shine," before striding away.

Blackquill's footsteps change from muffled upon the bedroom carpet, to wooden __clats__ out into the hallway. Klavier sits up, retightens his hair, then stands. He pauses, inhaling a deep breath, if only to convince himself that this is not a dream, or something he is __watching__ as a member of the audience. The aroma of warm bread fills his nostrils.

He passes the kitchen, to the living room where Blackquill has a simple arrangement laid out on the coffee table. Two plates with blueberry bagels, toasted and sliced. A mug is placed beside each of them, filled with steaming hot tea. A small tub of cream cheese and a jar of grape jam are open, and two butter knives sit between them.

Blackquill is sitting on a corner of the sectional, in front of one of the plates. He's still holding the bagel knife, and speaks only once Klavier takes a seat catacorner to him, in front of the other plate.

"I awoke before you, and... you do not have much in the way of breakfast, Gavin-dono. While I was not particularly hungry, I thought you might be once you awakened and so I took a walk, and found some provisions at the nearest convenience store."

Klavier removes the tea bag from the mug. A spiced orange scent wafts from it, but Klavier knows tea never tastes half as good as it smells. "You... __walked__? The closest convenience store is over a mile away."

"Yes. However, it is a pleasant morning. The walk served me well, allowed me the opportunity to sort out my thoughts after the events of last night."

Klavier slices out a glob of cream cheese and smears it over his bagel. He's not terribly hungry either and has never been much of a breakfast person, but Blackquill's act of kindness overrules any of that. He takes a bite, and swallowing it down becomes suddenly __difficult__ , for the lump that's formed in his throat.

He manages, but it's choked with the gratitude swelling within.

"You... but you just... __left__?"

"I did."

"...And you came back?"

" _ _Yes__ , Gavin-dono. Why are you asking questions to which you already know the answer? I am loathe to imagine how you operate in court without your daily caffeine intake if this is any indicator." Blackquill trades the knife for his mug of tea, bag still intact, and draws a long sip.

"I wasn't asking." Klavier mirrors Blackquill, but can't mask his distaste of Blackquill's—and Kristoph's—favorite beverage.

"What is the matter? Is black tea not to your liking? Perhaps it over-steeped or—"

" _ _Nein__ , I ah... I don't like __any__ tea very much." Klavier goes back to his bagel; even without much of an appetite, it's pretty delicious.

"Oh." Blackquill gazes into his mug, as if it might explain to him just __why__ Klavier does not like it. "You had a box in your cupboard. I thought... but then again, it was expired, so... that is why I bought you some, close to the flavor you had before."

Klavier didn't even know tea could expire; it's just leaves, isn't it?

"It wasn't for me," he says quietly, Kristoph's maniacal laughter spiraling through his mind.

Klavier, always trying to gain Kristoph's approval. Kristoph had never once visited Klavier at this address, yet Klavier kept his condo stocked with items Kristoph would like: candles of crisp, clean scents; tea he might drink; vinyl records of Kristoph's favorite classical songs—what would be nice background noise when they sat down and discussed a case together, the way the did at Kris's place after Klavier's first trial.

What had been an amicable meal between friends turns inside-out, an awkward silence looming between them. Klavier internally curses himself and sips more tea, despite his dislike of it.

A phone buzzes on the other end of the coffee table; Blackquill's. Klavier uses it as an excuse to check his own, and moves to the kitchen. His phone rests on the island, where he plugged it in last night before his shower. He smiles at Ema's texts informing him of her departure—she's less than thrilled about having her bag of Snackoos being considered too large to keep in her carry-on, but is otherwise ready for take-off.

And she hopes his dinner went well.

If he replies, she'll be charged international texting rates, and isn't sure his lie of a response is worth that to her. So he forgoes messaging her back, and pours his tea into a sink piled with less dishes than the day before.

Blackquill.

Klavier turns, unsure if he wants to thank or question Blackquill, only to find him in the midst of dipping a knife into the jar of grape jam. A shiny chunk is positioned precariously on the blade, and Blackquill's face is expressionless as he spreads the jam onto his bagel. "One might say this is..." he peers over at Klavier, the slightest smirk rising. "...my jam."

Klavier snorts and it turns into a laugh far too rich for such a stupid pun. "I'm surprised you didn't go with raspberry. More closely resembles blood," he says as he returns to the couch.

"Perhaps next time, Gavin-dono." Blackquill says, and takes a bite of his bagel. After swallowing, he continues. "Not that I wish for the circumstances of last night to repeat themselves, but... if we were to dine together again, at your place, a larger selection of spreads would be in order. I had to make do with what the convenience store offered."

This is Blackquill's roundabout way of reassuring him, Klavier knows; it's not about bagels or their toppings, but the prospect of sharing them.

Klavier mumbles a "Sounds good," and goes back to his bagel, sneaking glances at a Blackquill who is, in turn, letting his own gaze periodically slide towards his phone.

Blackquill eats as if Klavier is not there, and seems perfectly content with the silence they're enrobed in. Klavier opens his mouth a couple times, hoping to bring up the idea that had taken root last night, but at each chance, he stuffs it down with another bite of bagel.

He __knows__ it's not the case, but what if Blackquill takes it the wrong way—that Klavier is not trying to __help__ , but more, thinks Blackquill himself is help _ _less__? Or worse, what if Blackquill, so dangerously perceptive, suspects Klaver's good intentions are but a front for a less honorable pursuit?

No, but it's not like __that__. Just because Blackquill __looks__ different to him now doesn't mean he __is__ different, as a person...

Blackquill's eye catches Klavier's, the edge of his lips lifting in an attempt at a smile before he takes another sip of tea. It's very non-Blackquillish, this initiating of eye contact and knowing glances—that has more been Klavier's job, coaxing an introverted Blackquill into conversation and the like while out at the Cabooze.

 _ _Gott__ , if he hadn't felt that flicker of attraction last night, it would have happened right now. Between the breakfast and the attempt at domestic upkeep, and now Blackquill deeming him worthy of even the smallest of smiles...

He runs out of bagel to stopper up his proposal. And though there's no flawless way to deliver it, Klavier has always been fairly talented when it comes to ad-libbing. "Last night was, ah... revelatory, __ja__?"

"Yes, quite."

"But there's a couple things I'm not sure were resolved. That have been on my mind."

"Such is life, giving us more to wonder and worry about the moment we believe we've finally pieced it together. But what, might I ask, are you referring to?"

Being in an arena in front of thousands of adoring fans is child's play, but trying to talk to someone Klavier respects and considers a friend is the ultimate challenge. It's not hard when they're at karaoke together, so why the stage fright now?

Because he's not giving a performance, he supposes. This is the unplugged version, that he's presenting. And it's just __him__ , no background noise to serve as a distraction.

Picking up the container of cream cheese, Klavier leans back into the plush warmth of the couch, knees bent up to rest his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. He turns the cream cheese around in his hands, reading its label without absorbing any of the information it presents. It makes him vaguely reflect on the cheesecake he missed out on last night.

"It is the low fat variety," Blackquill says, setting down a now-empty mug.

Klavier laughs lightly. "That's not what I was thinking about, but good to know."

"Yet you seem awfully infatuated with it, for not thinking on it." Blackquill reaches to take the cream cheese from Klavier, and places it back on the table. "What is troubling you so, that it's been at the forefront of your thoughts since you've awakened?"

"Right, I... Blackquill, I hope it's not too intrusive for me ask, but... ah, the case. __Your__ case. With __Geist__..." Klavier trails off, checking to see if the mention of Blackquill's nemesis draws any negative reaction from his friend.

It does. Eyes narrowed, Blackquill picks up the bagel knife, and spins it adroitly between long fingers. The blade ends up pointing at Klavier, almost accusatory. "To the __point__ , Gavin-dono."

"Alright! I was just wondering—"

Blackquill's phone interrupts them, vibrating loudly against the heavy mahogany. A couple seconds pass, and it buzzes twice more.

"Are you going to answer that?" Klavier belatedly edits his question.

"I am not."

"No? It could be Herr Edgeworth or—"

"No, it is only Athena. I believe I told you, she and Miss Woods went out to the movies last night."

"You did," Klavier says.

"Right. Well, apparently she thoroughly enjoyed it. When I asked her of it, she replied with the same message she has now been sending me every ten minutes for the past three hours. This, and only this..." Blackquill picks up his phone, and taps open a message. "And I quote, 'I am Groot.'"

Klavier grins. "Ah, that is what is known as 'trolling'."

"Whatever it is, it is dreadfully irritating." For being so irritated, Blackquill sounds as though he is not in the least.

"Does she know you're __here__?"

"She does not. I'm sure she would approve; she often asks of our karaoke nights. But, you see, there is another reason she is sending me these childish responses: she is unwilling to accept me postponing the appointment we made for this afternoon. I've tried telling her I don't feel... up to it, but she just keeps replying with all this nonsense about Groot."

His questions about the case can wait. Klavier watches Blackquill idly twirl the knife by its handle, and does his best to simply listen instead of thinking about how he should respond. It's not a battle, like what he's used to with Kristoph—saying the right thing, __winning__ favor.

"What sort of appointment?" he prompts.

"Athena wishes for me to cut all this off." Blackquill gestures to the long fall of hair tied behind his head. "She feels it would be... __symbolic__ , if I were to do so. And I've been finding excuses not to, for months now. It's just... it will open the avenues to venture along anything and everything related to her mother, to my time in prison, to... things I don't find myself ready to speak on."

"Whatever you were to tell her, regarding any of those topics, she would not think ill of you. I hardly know her the way you or Justice does, but I know __enough__." It's easier said than done; trusting someone doesn't tear down the barriers built for the purpose of self-preservation. "But if only it were that simple, we would not be discussing it, __ja__?"

"Correct. With what occurred last night, I need time to prepare myself. To determine how I will explain to her what led to my actions, and ultimately, the consequences that will ensue. If I see her this afternoon she will __know__ something is wrong. That is, typically, there is __always__ something wrong with me... emotionally. And she is respectful enough to leave it be, most of the time. But this is... quite an anomaly, when it comes to 'something being wrong'."

Klavier wishes he had some sort of advice to pass along, to break Blackquill out of his sullen state. He opts for light-hearted observation, instead. "Hm, it's too bad you didn't have your luxurious mane lopped off at an earlier date. You could have maybe even sold it to be used as a wig."

"My 'mane' is not 'luxurious'." Blackquill's tone is razor-sharp, but a smile forms around his words. "Nor would anyone want to don it as a wig."

"Oh, __ja__ , thick and dark. Perfect for a guitar god to shred a solo behind." Klavier brings his own hands to his face, miming where a curtain of hair would fall in front of it.

"Try dead and dry." Blackquill says, still smirking. "Hair to match my soul."

"Ah, well..." Klavier hopes he doesn't sound uncomfortable—it's not like Blackquill, shrouding the truth with morbid humor, is telling him anything beyond what he himself has felt. At least he's in better spirits, even without any sort of resolution to his predicaments with Fräulein Cykes or __Geist__. "If that's the case, you're well on your way to rock stardom, __Herr Schwarz__. It's all about accessorizing."

Blackquill's smirk flattens out. His reply is calm, but serious. "I don't know anything about fashion and trends, but I'm guessing that almost eight years of a singular look means that a change is past due."

He knows Blackquill can't just be speaking about himself; his prison sentence began not too much after Klavier's own career. And they both certainly project a very distinct image, that's become bigger, more real and alive than they themselves feel most days.

Blackquill wipes the knife blade with the hem of his shirt. "You know, Athena is right—it __is__ symbolic, my hair is. Of who I became, who I __had__ to be in order to survive. And that is not who I can continue to be, as was proven yesternight."

Klavier eyes the knife. He doesn't even remember purchasing it; he should just let Blackquill keep it, as he's handled it more in the past hour than Klavier has... ever. Regardless, Blackquill is in possession of a blade and Klavier refuses to outright disagree with him. "I wouldn't phrase it that way, but... to a degree, __ja__. I suppose."

"And you are right too, Gavin-dono; that it is a shame I did not do this sooner. I do not want to be the Twisted Samurai any longer; that is, someone who simply survives. I want to __live__."

Blackquill brings the bagel knife to the notch where his hair is gathered back, and uses his left hand to hold it taut.

"What are you—?" Klavier's feet fall to the floor, and he finds himself trapped somewhere between fight and flight. His hand moves towards Blackquill, but makes no attempt to snatch the knife away.

Pressing the jagged teeth in, Blackquill saws into the dense black snarls. By the time Klavier comprehends what's happening—that there is no real danger— Blackquill pushes through the last threads of resistance, and then there is only the knife, suspended in thin air.

On the couch's armrest is seven—nearly eight, now—years worth of memories, of __commitment__ , of a physical reminder how Simon Blackquill was willing, no, __yearning__ to die.

Blackquill, somewhere amid disbelieving and relieved, touches the tips of a haircut that now ends in an asymmetrical slant at the back of his neck. "Excellent. Now Athena can not harass me about having my hair shorn today, as I've already done so. How do I look? Presentable?"

Interviews are like second nature to Klavier, but this feels a little more like he's in the interrogation room—and not on the law's side. "Well, ah... I'd say, a little less twisted. Much more... not yourself. Your once and former self, I mean."

"Hmph." Blackquill's smirk returns as he continues to stroke at the tips of his hair. "That was a nice touch, such dramatic opining, was it not? If it convinced you, then Athena will devour it."

Klavier would roll his eyes if he wasn't certain Blackquill would spear them out, were he to do so. Blackquill's flippancy borders on obnoxious, yet Klavier surmises that he is one of the privileged few who Blackquill chooses to subject to it.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said you weren't convincing, Blackquill." But Klavier's tone hints that he might also be lying if he fully admitted that Blackquill, at least in this instance, __was__.

"Here." Blackquill pushes the topic away by handing his phone over to Klavier. He picks up his severed tail of hair from where it lays like a dead fish. "We shall send off a digital photograph to her, and see if she then still insists on identifying as this Groot creature."

"Why do I get the feeling that everything you've done this morning is part of an elaborate scheme to involve me in your ah...even more elaborate schemes?"

"That is where you are wrong, Gavin-dono, for you've already involved yourself without any scheming on my part. Regardless, any attempt to escape on your end will prove futile."

Only Blackquill could turn an affirmation of friendship into an ominous threat. Klavier accepts this by tapping the phone's screen, capturing Blackquill holding up his hair like a prized catch.

"There." Klavier passes the phone back. Blackquill's devious grin signifies he's satisfied with it, and with a few more taps, it's sent off to Fräulein Cykes.

Within seconds, it's buzzing with an incoming call, and Blackquill answers.

"Yes, good morning, Groot." With that, Blackquill extends the phone at arm's length, and Klavier can hear Athena's energetic, incredulous rambling. What begins as a chuckle under Klavier's breath builds into barely contained laughter as Blackquill returns to the call.

"No, that is— _ _Athena__ , listen to me: it matters not when or how I rid myself of this unruly overgrowth. You should be thankful that I did and— _ _we will discuss it at a later date!__ " Blackquill is pacing as he speaks, and turns away, that Klavier can't see his expression. But there's a relaxed slouch to his shoulders, his free hand still casually fingering at his freshly-cropped hair that indicate his clipped tone is nothing except his way of communicating with Fräulein Cykes as openly as he can bring himself to.

He'd spoken of avoiding any talk of what had contributed to his long hair and this impulsive decision, Klavier realizes, is an expertly crafted way of continuing to do so.

"No, I do not mean... you __just__ saw it last night—no, I don't... oh, hell, __fine__ , we can go see it. But I am not paying for anything other than my own ticket and concessions... Where am I?" Blackquill must be repeating Athena's question, as his eyes flick about, searching for a reply. Klavier gestures to himself, indicating permission for Blackquill to tell her the truth. "I'm with Prosecutor Gavin. I am assisting him with a personal matter... What? No, I'm sure he does not want to—alright!"

Blackquill cups his hand over the lower portion of his phone, looking over to Klavier. "Athena would like for you to join her, myself, Misses Woods and Newman, and that O'Conner cad. Tomorrow afternoon. To see the Groot movie."

Klavier smiles, speaking with a calm he was certain he wouldn't be able to find again so easily. " _ _Danke__ , Athena, I'd love to."

"He accepts... __what__? No, I will not consult him on that matter, I will—goodbye, Athena. I will see you tomorrow. No. Yes. Good—...no, you are __not__ Groot!"

Blackquill hangs up, tosses his phone onto the sofa, and sinks back into his seat with a heavy sigh. Klavier tries to stifle his laughter, especially so after Blackquill retrieves the bagel knife and begins to twirl it again.

"Thank you," Blackquill finally says, though he's looking at the metal blade.

" _ _Ja__ , of course." Klavier savors Blackquill's gratitude, as he doubts he'll receive any more once he divulges his intentions for what could become their mutual future. "It's been some time since I've seen Fräulein Newman anyway. And it's ah... well, it's becoming habitual now, isn't it? Me answering your pleas for help. I suppose I couldn't stop myself."

At last, it's Blackquill who laughs, a short huff through his nose. "Hmph. If you would like to think of it that way, you would not be entirely incorrect. Just see to it you fine-tune that well-trained ear of yours to hear beleaguered cries from a much shorter distance. Understood?"

Klavier nods.

"Now, what was it you were dithering over, before we were rudely interrupted?"

This time he doesn't wait for a knife to urge him. Klavier leaps past his own anxieties, right to the point. "You mentioned __Herr__ Edgeworth will remove you from __Geist__ 's case."

"Yes. He will. I will not agree with it, because no one currently living is as familiar with the phantom as I am, but... he has every right to. It is the punishment that I deserve, for not keeping myself composed when being confronted by the face—or lack thereof—of evil."

Klavier bypasses any acknowledgment of Blackquill's dramatics, knowing there'll be plenty of opportunity to address them later. "Right. Then, I'm going to take the case from you; I'll ask the chief about it first thing Monday morning."

Blackquill shows little reaction, only continues spinning the knife about, examining it. "No," he says in a low murmur, as if he's merely thinking out loud about something entirely unrelated.

"Blackquill—"

The knife slams to the coffee table. Blackquill is on his feet now, surely aiming to talk __down__ to Klavier, quite literally. Klavier won't let him, and also rises. Either his new look has drained Blackquill of his intimidating aura, or Klavier is just that boldly committed, that Blackquill's seething hot glare has no effect on him.

"No," Blackquill repeats.

" _ _Why__?" is Klavier's immediate response.

"There are... __elements__ of this case that I do not want you exposed to. Certain truths will come to light, and... you don't understand, Gavin-dono. You don't..." Blackquill pauses, and for the first time this morning, appears tense. He breathes in, and then out, audibly. "There are truths that even __I__ have not been enlightened to as of yet. And those truths may be all I have left. I do not want them revealed to anyone but me."

Klavier can not make heads or tails of Blackquill's statement; for how blunt he's been since last evening, he's become inexplicably vague, and that might escalate into uncooperative if Klavier presses him for details. It's for the best if he keeps up his own assault; inevitably, it will have to intersect with Blackquill's reservations.

"But that's just it; the truth. And the truth is, what you've just presented is no longer an option. __Someone__ will need to resume this case, as it's a high-priority one. And these truths you're so worried about—would you rather anyone __else__ , perhaps a prosecutor you've never even met, learn them?"

"It's not about __you__ , or anyone else." Blackquill says in a dangerously even tone. "Like I said, you __don't__ understand. There's... " The reality of the situation seems to have finally hit Blackquill, like a sucker-punch. He reaches a flattened hand to his ribs, as if he'd been struck there. Unable to finish his sentence, he instead gathers up his portion of the breakfast setting, and transports it to the kitchen sink.

Klavier follows, doing the same, undeterred. He didn't expect this to go smoothly; all he can do is keep on.

"Listen, Blackquill. After my brother's... actions, I gave up my life as a musician. Professionally, anyway. And it wasn't just because I'd lost a member of my band, it... working opposite Justice opened my eyes. About striving for the truth, no matter how painful it might be, and I... when I agreed to work with you, originally, it was part of that promise."

"It wasn't out of the goodness of your heart?" Blackquill still isn't fully recovered; Klavier can sense he means to be sarcastic here, but it's falling flat.

"Not at all. I was reluctant to do so, but Herr Edgeworth informed me that if I did not work with you and... ah, with you..." Blackquill is already on edge; Klavier does not want to further it with any mention of his deceased detective. "Then no one else would. I'm assuming he came to me knowing I was not in a position to say 'no' to him. He very much believed in your ability to apprehend __Geist__ and simultaneously prove your innocence, and I think... that was enough for me."

"And what does that have to do with where we are now?" Blackquill crosses his arms, a sign of dwindling patience.

"Everything, naturally. Our work isn't done until the phantom is brought to trial for his crimes, and sentenced accordingly. And it... I can tell you, that nothing these past couple years has been easy, but those months working with you... I actually felt like I was fulfilling the purpose I'd laid out for myself so long ago, and then renewed. For once, I felt... needed. Useful."

"A convincing argument. But as I said, there is specific knowledge that I, and only I, have of this case and those involved."

Klavier wishes he could be upset with Blackquill for being so self-centered. But hadn't that been his same angle he'd presented when he'd wanted to be the one to prosecute Daryan? It became a struggle between biased feelings versus intimate knowledge. There was no one better-suited, and at the same time, no worse choice, to prosecute Detective Crescend.

"Then, the time will come when you have to share that knowledge with me." Klavier slowly steps backwards, away from Blackquill and towards his phone—and the case folio Blackquill tossed on the counter last night.

"You sound incredibly certain of this development."

Klavier nods with a smug smile. "Mm-hm." He stops at his phone, feigning that he's reading a text. "Oh, our favorite forensics expert has made it to Khu'rain. She says..." Klavier pauses, glancing at Blackquill to ensure his defenses are still lowered.

"...Yes?" Blackquill asks, suspicion poking through. He's still not noticed where he's left his files.

"...That I have every right to sound so certain." In a swift motion, Klavier snatches the case files up and darts back towards the living room, desperate to find higher ground.

"No!" comes Blackquill's cry from behind him. He snags Klavier by the shirttail, but Klavier breaks free as he rounds the side of the sectional Blackquill had been sitting on.

Picking up Blackquill's abandoned tail of hair from the arm rest, Klavier chucks it at him, striking Blackquill directly in the face. Blackquill lets out a string of muffled curses and rips it away, but it's given Klavier just enough time to climb up the back of the sofa. He sits, back resting against the wall with his arm stretched as high as possible above himself.

With no hesitation, Blackquill picks up the bagel knife and steps up onto the couch with far more steadiness than he should have with such weighted boots. He could easily tear the files from Klavier now, but instead glares with silent reproach.

"You are a terrible houseguest, Blackquill." Klavier's arm is still extended above him, a taunting gesture that matches his carefree tone. "Putting your feet on the host's couch? Pulling a knife on them... how many times is this...? Three? I mean, I know you loaded my dishwasher and bought me breakfast, but still, I don't think—"

"Give me my files back," Blackquill growls. " _ _Now__."

" _ _Nein__ , my files now. What are you going to do, tattle to __Herr__ Edgeworth?" Klavier lowers his voice and affects a slight British accent. "Edgeworth-sensei, Gavin-dono stole my case files!" He stamps his foot petulantly for emphasis, which isn't much as it only squishes into the cushy couch.

Blackquill inches the knife closer to the Klavier's jaw. "No. I will simply end you."

Klavier guesses that none of Blackquill's threats have resulted in the recipient laughing in his face, but Klavier bursts out in a gale of laughter.

"This is __amusing__ to you?!" Blackquill's voice is strained with the anguish of one fighting a losing battle. He's clutching the knife so tightly that it's visibly shaking.

"Amusing, no, but laughable? Yes, Blackquill! Incredibly so! You want my support, my... ah, companionship. Crave it, I would go as far as to say." Klavier brings his tired arm down to cradle the files close. Blackquill makes no attempt to steal them away. "You go on and on about how you __value__ me, my opinion, and then...! When you've no choice __but__ to accept help from me, you reject it. Refuse it. What else can I do, but laugh? Well, cry, I suppose, but I've done far too much of that lately."

Blackquill himself looks ready to cry. His own arm falls away, knife dropping to the cushions. But Klavier knows better than to claim victory just yet. He waits for Blackquill to speak, and after turning his gaze away and swallowing thickly, he does.

"Seeking help through one's own accord and accepting it without having asked first are very different things, Gavin-dono. You know this. All my maundering on last night... my demonstrations of said desire for companionship, my declaration of... of the high esteem I hold for you as a prosecutor and as a person. None of that was disingenuous, you know that as well. But... this case is more important to me than any words can properly describe."

" _ _Ja__ , __ja__ , we've established as much. Just... if you will not accept it for your own sake, at least think of what Fräulein Cykes would—"

"This does not involve Athena!" The Twisted Samurai flashes momentarily in Blackquill's eyes.

What might have once invoked fear is now a plaintive appeal. Klavier makes every effort to keep the pity out of his reply, despite how rapidly it's welling up within him.

"Do you __hear__ yourself? How does this __not__ involve her? It involves her in every way possible. She has faced irreversible trauma because of __Geist__ , and she... I am speaking from experience; she can not be protected from it, if she is to move beyond its effects. __You__ know this. I know you do."

"Are you insinuating you are more closely acquainted with Athena than I?"

"I'm not. But I don't think you know her very well either, Blackquill. I think you did, once. Just as she knew you. But for you to know each other now..." Klavier shakes his head, thoughts drifting to how much people change over the years. Or, perhaps, they never really do, and it's just one's perception of them that changes. "With you off this case, it would give the two of you equal footing, so to speak. You would both be victims—I mean, you are, regardless, but... you are not her keeper. Not anymore. You've both saved each other, and you're back to square one. Please, let me be the one to help you take the next step. Together."

Klavier can't begin to imagine all the cogs turning within Blackquill's vast mind. He simply waits, mesmerized, and hoping his rapt attention does not disconcert Blackquill any further. It doesn't seem to, as Blackquill is mentally elsewhere, and does not sound altogether present when he responds.

"It sounds as though it might allow you, too, to move forward."

" _ _Ja__ , there you go. Exactly. Also, I can't speak for Herr Forehead... er, that is, our mutual friend Mr. Justice... but there is little reason to believe __he'd__ have any objections to me being the one to bring Clay Terran's killer to justice. So there's that."

For all of Blackquill's obstinance, something in this particular statement penetrates his defiance. He steps down off the couch, and rubs at his chin in a thoughtful way.

"I... to justice, you say."

"That's right. For Dr. Cykes, and Athena. For Terran, and Justice, and everyone at GYAXA. For..." Klavier pauses, feeling as though he's pronouncing a word in a different language for the first time, and exercises great caution. "...Detective Fulbright."

Klavier never knew Fulbright except in passing; by the time they'd been officially introduced, they hadn't, truly, ever been.

Blackquill's expression morphs—not panicked, exactly, but very __alert__. "Perhaps you should acquaint yourself with the case files before speaking with Edgeworth-san, or he might not grant you the permission you're so confident you'll be given. There is nothing in there about our phantom friend being charged with Fool... with Bobby Fulbright's murder."

"But that can't... a body was found shortly before our work together, and was, a year later, identified as Detective Fulbright's. He __had__ to have been slain at the hands of __Geist__. There is no way it was a happy accident, for __Geist__ , that Fulbright died, allowing him to slip into the identity undetected."

"No. That has yet to be proven. There's only circumstantial evidence, and given the state of the body that was recovered and the length of time that's passed, nothing conclusive that can be reached. That, even, it was a homicide." Blackquill says this all in a tight, overly-professional manner, and it squeezes at Klavier's heart. "Nor will the accused admit guilt. No matter what methods are employed."

Suddenly, Klavier has a pretty accurate idea of what sparked so much rage within Blackquill last night. And what Blackquill means by there being truths that remain unearthed. About the heightened level of importance of this case.

"Then, I have a long road ahead of me, and your cooperation will be much appreciated. But you can count on me, Blackquill. And I think it best we let Fräulein Cykes know she can too."

"Yes, I... fine. We can speak with her tomorrow. After the movie. Together. I just..." Blackquill sighs, frustration nudging out. "It will hurt her. Maybe not tomorrow, but... at __some__ point, throughout this, it—"

"But it is already hurting her, __and__ you. Pain is sometimes necessary. Thankfully, there are many things that can be stronger than it, as proven."

"I... I suppose, yes."

A silence unrolls between them, until all the discussion of the case pulls at a related thread in Klavier's mind. "Did you call both of us out today, Blackquill?"

"Out of where?"

"Work, of course. Unless you're assuming those wardens informed Herr Edgeworth that the both of us left... rather indisposed last night."

"What are you playing at, Gavin-dono? Today is Saturday. I have not spoken to Chief Edgeworth, and do not intend to until Monday."

"No, what? I thought it was Friday. I... but the movie tomorrow!" Klavier climbs off the couch, and rushes to his phone, noticing what he hadn't before. "Oh, __Scheisse__."

"What..? What's wrong?"

Klavier can't answer, his mouth sealed shut. If he opens it, he may scream.

The holiday on Monday, leading to the shortened work week. Moving his counselling appointment to a different day and throwing off his internal clock. And he'd assumed, Blackquill, in his responsible nature, had told Herr Edgeworth that they were both taking sick days, as their chief was accommodating enough to allow "sick days" to include ones pertaining to mental health.

But no. Today is Saturday, which makes tomorrow Sunday. When he's agreed to go out with Blackquill, Athena and their friends to the movies, then subsequently tell Fräulein Cykes his plans of taking the reins of the phantom's case.

Sunday. When, every other week, he visits his brother.


	5. Chapter 5

"How was the movie, Klavier?" _ ___

Klavier closes his eyes. It is just him, in the darkness. Alone, with Kristoph. Alone. _ ___

"Not worth speaking of, I take it? I'm surprised, then, that you would even bother going." Kristoph does not sound the least bit surprised. He never is, at least as far as Klavier is concerned.

Eyes still shut, Klavier tells him this. One of the few things he can tell Kristoph and be certain of.

"You're right, surprised isn't really the best word. Disappointed, perhaps? But I suppose that would mean I built up my expectations of you in the first place."

He so desperately wants to admit he went with Blackquill, with Athena and her friends. __His__ friends, and the movie doesn't even matter to him. But he knows it will only make things worse; if Kristoph learns of the connection Klavier is forging with Blackquill and his circle, he will take it from Klavier, make it __his__. Like a toy he doesn't even want but Klavier has it and Kristoph does not.

This new venture of Klavier's doesn't involve __him,__ which is unforgiveable. But once Kristoph finds a way (and he always does), he'll taint, and eventually, destroy it. What is Klavier thinking, trying to show he is capable of a life without Kristoph's influence?

"Isn't it interesting?" Kristoph, again, does not seem interested. Not that Klavier has anything in recent memory to base this presumption off of. "You're so concerned with... what was it, seeking the truth? And yet, I can't recall you ever once being honest with me... __Brüderlein__."

Kristoph's endearment bears no affection, only mocks the culture that he so readily tossed aside and Klavier embraced. Fitting.

Klavier doesn't—can't—respond. Can't tell the truth. What would it even matter, if he could?

"Oh, but that's right: __I'm__ the bad guy. The unpardonable criminal, the Devil incarnate. You're just another victim, hm?" Kristoph's tone is the same cool one he would use in court, when he was sailing to a clear-cut victory. "So it's all excusable. Pathetic, but excusable."

He needs to get out of here.

No, __Kristoph__ needs to get out of here—he's the intruder, the one with no misgivings about entering whatever space he deems in need of his service. But that won't happen. No one will turn him away.

Klavier won't turn him away.

Moving to stand, Klavier opens his eyes. Kristoph is only a shadow, a blurry figure blacker than the darkness of his cell. There is no source of light but his glasses gleam a stripe of hot white, become larger, brighter as he reaches through the bars and lowers Klavier back into his chair. "You aren't going anywhere. You—"

"Don't fucking touch me."

Klavier tries to stand again, the force of it throwing Kristoph's hands from his shoulders. He's ready to push back this time. He doesn't know how to defend himself—he's never really thought he'd have to do so. But he's sick of, as Daryan would always accuse him, pussying out when it comes to Kristoph. He can't take the law into his own hands—he can't become Kristoph, he can't, but he __has__ to; it's inevitable.

He has to.

His arms propel through the opening in the bars, making solid contact with Kristoph's chest. There's an __oomph__ , uncharacteristically low for his brother, followed by his wrist being snared and used to push the rest of him firmly back to where he was seated. The chair is much wider, softer than before.

" _ _Sit__ , Gavin-dono."

Kristoph's outline fades, eroding away like ice under salt.

In his place—in __reality—__ is Blackquill. Taller and broader and a burning intensity in his eyes that counters the frosted-over gaze Kristoph would always assess him with. As they'd been before, only Klavier __knows__ it now, Blackquill's hands are on Klavier's shoulders, guiding and steadying him, not casually ushering him towards self-destruction.

He should... either thank Blackquill, or apologize. He does both, though neither feels wholly suitable. "I'm sorry. But __danke__."

Blackquill's hold drops. He is somewhere between confused and impatient, and Klavier wonders just how long he's been __detached__. Even more so when Blackquill asks, "I take it you have not heard a word I've said?"

"I..." He doesn't dare to not __attempt__ an answer. "Ah, about how I should be more attentive to my personal schedule, now that I've no longer agents or assistants to do it for me."

Blackquill lets out an amused __Hmph__ , smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. "Your aim is true, but your blade too dull. It so happens that I did not say anything. I was waiting for you to... reconnect, as I assumed you were deep in thought. Obviously you were, in some sense of the word."

"I was," Klavier confirms. Should it bother him that Blackquill seems to be taking this all rather lightly? Because it doesn't, but maybe that's a good thing. "I didn't mean to ah... I wasn't shouting at you. I didn't mean to shove __you__."

"You were hardly shouting, but yes. I know you weren't. As I've already pointed out, you were not entirely present. You were mentally elsewhere."

"I didn't... __mean__ to be."

"No, of course not. It was only a sort of defense mechanism. Something unsettled you—presumably, the fact that you mistook what day it was—so you fled the only way you could. You could not do so physically so, much like a dream, your mind carried you to somewhere familiar."

"Familiar" should denote "comforting", but they both know that's not the case here. Blackquill can read him like an open book, so why can't he reciprocate? If they're going to work together—if they're going to be __friends—__ there needs to be communication. The kind that doesn't involve the backdrop of a hazy bar, or is squeezed out of them after a night of drinking and violent outbursts.

The kind Kristoph insists Klavier has never used, and the kind that can start now.

" _ _Ja__ , that's... you're right, I thought tomorrow was Saturday, not Sunday, so..." There's no way to deliver this softly, and Blackquill's already shown he has no tolerance for beating around the bush. "I can't go to the movies with you tomorrow. I know we just discussed asking Athena about your... __the__ case, but it might have to wait until some other time, and—"

"You... how do you mean, you __can't__?" Blackquill asks, eyes and words sharpening. "You certainly can. You've already __agreed__ to it, and—"

"Kristoph," Klavier interrupts. "I see him every other Sunday. In the afternoon."

"So you would rather disappoint Athena, and essentially, throw me to the wolves? Lend me none of the support you so adamantly claimed you were here to provide me, all for the purpose of visiting your..." Blackquill pauses long enough to rethink his word choice. "For visiting Kristoph Gavin."

"It's not that... __easy__." Nor does his reply come easily, and Blackquill leaps on the opportunity.

"How is it not? It was easy enough for you to accept Athena's invitation—I do not think your 'forgetting' of the day was entirely accidental."

"I always see him. I have for..." __Gott__ , how long has it been now? "Almost two years."

"Did you not also frequently visit Detective Crescend ? That is, the way you've spoken of him, it sounds as much. From what I gather, you've stopped doing so."

Has he? It's been almost three months since he's seen Daryan. Since leaving sooner than he'd wanted to, because he couldn't keep having this dead-end discussion, with Daryan labeling his crime a dozen different things except for what it was: capital murder.

And it's still etched burning hot in his mind: that sneering laugh he'd once been charmed by, it's owner spitting derision at the back now turned on him.

"See you next week."

"No." His voice betrayed how disconsolate he'd become, and Klavier had been thankful Daryan couldn't see how much more prominently it showed in his expression. "I don't have to come see you."

"Yeah, ya fucking do. So you can spend another hour trying to figure out where I ruined everything for us, because of how fucked up I am. You know what, Gavin? I might be a convicted killer, but you don't get to stand there all high and mighty like you're in any different place than where you were when this all went to shit."

High and mighty? No, Klavier doesn't carry himself like that. Or, he doesn't try to. If he did, Ema and Blackquill would have been quick to cull it.

But he __is__ somewhere different than he was "when this all went to shit"—that is, when Kristoph had first been arrested.

At least, he thinks he is. Daryan is the only one who would really know, but then again, Daryan only saw what they __used__ to have—the Klavier he used to love. Perhaps even still __did__ love, in his own fucked-up way, because the person Klavier had become over the years—the one who couldn't figure his shit out, who had wanted Kristoph, Daryan, the band, and everyone else to do it for him—wasn't cutting it for him anymore.

That much he'd made clear when they'd had it out with each other a few weeks after Kristoph's arrest. Until Klavier decided he was done with all this Kristoph bullshit and actually __did a goddamn thing about it__ , Daryan was done with him.

"Gavin?" Again, Blackquill gently urging him, though this time with quantifiable concern.

Klavier answers hastily, if only to keep Blackquill from thinking he's doing or saying anything __wrong__ here. And taking the same route as Daryan.

"I... yes, I've quit visiting Daryan." The reason why emerges as the sentence takes shape, leaves his mouth.

Because he'd stopped loving him. Not just fell out of love, romantically, but in __any__ sense. He doesn't love Daryan, doesn't even __like__ him. Sure, Klavier misses him in the way he misses that part of his life, when his biggest worries were the acoustics in a new arena, not grappling with a storm cloud of depression looming over him and threatening to downpour and drown him at any moment.  
 _ _  
__But what he'd told himself was sheer obstinance—that he was simply proving Daryan wrong—is hardly that complex, and it's exactly why he _ _hasn't__ stopped visiting Kristoph. Why he knows he never will, until the set day when he literally __can't__...

"Daryan... er, Detective Crescend, he... " Klavier pauses, looks to Blackquill. Has he referred to Daryan by his first name when mentioning him to Blackquill before? It doesn't matter, Klavier supposes, as Blackquill is astute enough to realize Daryan wasn't __just__ a bandmate, or detective, to him. "Well, this might go without saying, but the dissolution of our... __partnership__ followed a different trajectory than ah... the one between my brother and myself."

"Kristoph." Blackquill has pointedly avoided, and is now correcting Klavier himself, in referring to the Gavins as brothers.

Klavier's not as oblivious as everyone likes to think he is—at least, he's not anymore. He knows what Blackquill is getting at, and opens his mouth to make that crystal clear, but Blackquill anticipates it and adeptly counters.

"You said it is not easy for you, Gavin-dono, but just think: it's been easy for him, through all these years, to forgo seeing you. Your concerts and your trials—you've made mention of how he always had a scheduling conflict to prevent him from attending."

 _ _So__? Klavier had always assumed it was because of Daryan being so heavily involved in both of his careers, that Kristoph refused to be openly supportive. If he'd __really__ disapproved, Klavier had thought, he would have stopped Klavier because if Kristoph was anything it was meticulously dedicated to ensuring everything went __his__ way.

Of course, that was before the complication known as Phoenix Wright needed to be disposed of. At last, Klavier had become invaluable to Kristoph, and Klavier will never forget the unvarnished admiration Kristoph had looked at him with following his first trial. That __reverence__ , that pride; he'd drunk it so deeply and let himself stay intoxicated by it for years, obsessively seeking out another serving each and every time he'd seen Kristoph since.

But the way Blackquill has been quietly studying him—attempting to really __understand__ Klavier Gavin as opposed to vacillating over what use Klavier Gavin might be to him, and only __then__ may he be complimented or treated with any sort of base human decency...

He thinks—he knows—it's a far better wellspring to draw from, and his mind's a little foggy again. Defenses weakened but he does not feel __weak__ , nor helpless.

"Must I give the final verdict right now?" He infuses his question with the same up-down laugh he'd patented for magazine interviews.

That he's used too many times during chatting at karoake, for Blackquill to not see through it.

"No. But if that is indeed the case, then come with me. Let me show you something." Blackquill beckons, and Klavier obliges.

He's led to the storage cube in the corner of the living room. It's a three-by-three grid, a solid pine product of fine Swedish engineering. Klavier, hardly a handyman by any stretch of the word, had constructed it himself. Its top, which sits slightly above waist-high on Klavier, acts as a home for a couple different awards as well as his expensive violin case with its even more expensive violin.

The body, its nine identical storage squares, house collapsible canvas drawers. Inside these drawers are everything from law reference books, to vinyls and CDs he amassed from other bands he's toured with, to old tax return envelopes and records. They all hold the common thread of being items that Klavier has not touched since he's initially tossed them in their respective drawers.

The bottom right cube is different. There is no canvas drawer, only a large transparent container that was once tightly lidded shut, but is now (and was of this morning, Klavier suspects) opened.

Blackquill lowers to his knees and heaves the container out from the cube. Motes of dust float up towards Klavier, and he rubs at his nose, watching Blackquill as his insides fill with equal parts dread and curiosity. He knows what's in this container.

Which is why he doesn't want Blackquill to know.

"Now, I only wish for your decision about where to spend your afternoon tomorrow to be an informed one," Blackquill says, looking up at Klavier. "I do not think you have all the facts – or, you have not examined them properly, from all angles."

Klavier frowns. Even if Blackquill is trying to help, he doesn't have to be so condescending about it. "I don't think I ever said anything about having __trouble__ with making my decision; it's more how I will make it up to you and Fräulein Cykes. Maybe I don't have all the facts, but my mind is made up."

"Very well," Blackquill says, as if Klavier has told him nothing remotely deterring. Possibly encouraging, for how much more confident he sounds. "Then, if you so choose to not allow tomorrow to benefit you, we shall have make the most of today. Sit."

"I'll stand."

"So be it. Now, I did not mean to __snoop__ through your belongings, but this discovery did not involve a great deal of detective work. I was in search of a kettle, to boil water for our tea. And I happened to find one here, clearly visible." He places a hand to the outside of the container. Klavier knows it's true, that the kettle would be the only easily distinguishable item inside.

"But you have since verified that you do not drink tea, and yet, there was this kettle. Also, this." He picks out a corkscrew from within. "And you've made mention while out at karaoke that you are not a fan of wine either."

Klavier doesn't say anything, only focuses on the violin case instead. Reaches to fiddle with the latches, if only to have something to do that doesn't involve __listening__ to what he knows Blackquill's deduction is.

"And then, all this nail polish." Though he doesn't see it, Klavier hears the clinking of small bottles being combed through, knocking against each other. "But you yourself have professed to remaining faithful to your local salon, and allowing them, and only them, to service you while in Los Angeles. And then there's-"

"Did you know," Klavier interrupts, "that Kristoph wanted me to learn violin, when I first showed an interest in singing, songwriting? He saw it, I think, as a test to how committed I really was to becoming a musician. And, you know, I hated it at the time. But it... looking back now, it was for the best. It helped, a lot."

He chances a glimpse at Blackquill long enough to see what's almost a glare, but there's too much pity mixed in to describe it as exactly that.

"Yes?" Blackquill presses, assuming that Klavier can't be finished if he felt it necessary to introduce such an anecdote. "You may go on. There must be more."

It's Kristoph. There's __always__ more.

"Well, I don't know if you know this either, Blackquill, but as far as instruments go, the violin is the closest to a human voice. With how nuanced it is, and how delicately one needs to handle it. Just its tone, its range." Klavier gently runs a finger along one of the strings. "I don't think I would have ever succeeded in music composition if not for having learned violin."

"I did not know that about the violin, no," Blackquill confesses. "Might I assume that, like what is being stored near it, the one you have there also once belonged to Kristoph?"

" _ _Ja__. I had one of my own. I sold it after... ah, after it was sitting around too long, you know. There is surely a child in this city in greater need of it. This one is his. Was his, at least, before he was moved."

To Death Row.

"So you do not use it." It's not a question. "Any of these. They are all for... not for show, as they are packed away. Then what? What is their value to you?"

Blackquill is not testing him; he honestly does not know. Klavier doesn't know either. Since the day he brought them here from Kristoph's office, apartment, he's been waiting for Kristoph to be the one to supply that answer, and... well, perhaps he already has. Klavier just wishes it were a __different__ answer.

He's already made it known he has no tolerance for mind games, even if Blackquill is framing it all kindness and a dash of sympathy

"Let's cut to the chase, Blackquill: it doesn't matter what sort of value I ascribe to any of these." Klavier waves vaguely to the violin, the container. "You're going to tell me to throw all those things away—or give them away, but basically, to part with them in some manner."

"Yes. It bears repeating: I think you need to make use of this day, what, with tomorrow being __wasted__ on—"

"You don't think I haven't considered it already?" Klavier snaps at him.

"Judging by the film of dust that was present on the lid, no, I don't. Similar to the expired tea I found earlier; you would rather hold on to these trinkets out of sentimentality. Perhaps, even, out of hope. That they will be used again by their original owner – that you might be __asked__ to bring them to him."

"That's quite a conclusion you've jumped to." Klavier smiles, thin and fabricated—like what his faith in Kristoph has become. But still there.

"Am I wrong?" Blackquill asks.

"No," Klavier replies,voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Ah, I mean, not about __that__. About __why__. But I promise, I have thought about getting rid of... most of it. All of it, even. I've even discussed it with my counselor, __how__ I would go about doing so, and-"

"It requires no discussion. You decide which belongings you will donate, which you might want to gift to friends or acquaintances, and what is rubbish. That is all."

"Hah, that is __not__ all."

"For today, yes, it will be," Blackquill says. "Listen, Gavin-dono: I trust you, I really do. But I... I worry that I can not, where Kristoph is concerned. And if you are to commit yourself to the phantom's case, I can not allow him to take precedent in your life."

It's true, what Blackquill is saying, and for him, Klavier __does__ want to try. But... "I guess I just feel like you're trying to prove something, more than trying to __help__ me in some way."

Blackquill shows no offense at Klavier's skepticism. "All I'm hoping to prove is what you outlined to me no less than a half hour ago: the idea of taking strides to move beyond past tragedies. I do believe in what you said, and that your support __can__ help me, and even Athena. But I can not accept it if you do not take the same measures yourself. This is not by any means a __cure__. It is only one small step in what will be a lengthy process. Small, but necessary."

Klavier hates that he wants to argue; he's not ready, and Blackquill can't __make__ him do any of this. But he'll never really __be__ ready, just as he has been told that freedom is something Blackquill's entirely unprepared for. And yet, Klavier's pushed him along into this whole __life__ thing, firm but not unkind. He's not forced Blackquill, so he can't act as if that's what Blackquill is doing to him.

It's just, he's not sure there's any __point__ to this. That it's really as necessary as Blackquill claims.

He should offer to take Blackquill home now. Begin planning how to approach Herr Edgeworth on Monday. But to appease Blackquill—show that he's making __some__ kind of concerted effort—he throws out a suggestion.

"Hm, why don't I keep the kettle—for your visits?" He tacks on a hopeful smile; Blackquill is unmoved.

"The goal of this exercise is __not__ to retain any of these possessions. Although, you've a point, with the kettle. That, you may keep. But __only__ that. Now this," he says, picking out the corkscrew, "I will take in on Monday. Perhaps an offering to Edgeworth-san, to express my remorse. Not that I don't deserve punishment to the fullest, but... I do not need it, and it'd be a shame to throw away. All this nail polish, on the other hand..."

Klavier plucks at a violin string, carefully and meticulously tuning the instrument. Not looking at the container that serves as an extension of his brother makes talking about expelling all its contents easier. But only a little. "Don't throw those away. I'll just bring them to him tomorrow."

"But they can not possibly be usable. I'm sure they're years old. And such items are not allowed as gifts to Death Row inmates; I feel as if you're aware of that, but even if you are not, I most certainly am. It must be tossed."

Klavier sighs, positioning the violin between his chin and shoulder, as if to play. "At least let me tell him first. That I'm throwing them out." His left-hand fingers press along the finger tape, muscle memory guiding him through the opening of __Ode to Joy__. He hums the tune ever-so-lightly under his breath, and when it's over, he concludes enough time has passed that Blackquill will permit him this compromise.

He's wrong.

"May I point out that if these items __were__ at all important to you – that is, you believed them to be important enough to __Kristoph__ , you would have gone through them already. Given them to him, if possible. But you haven't, because you __are__ beginning to move beyond him—and that is perfectly alright. I'm only... I really am trying to aid you, Gavin-dono."

"Right," Klavier agrees, but in a tone of insouciance. It might have a worse effect on Blackquill than if he'd tried to debate him, judging by the heavy beat of silence between them. Remaining fixated on the violin, Klavier asks, "And what of the vinyls? I won't throw those out; they're __music,__ after all."

"And yet, __you__ haven't listened to any of them. Some of them are still in their wrapping."

Blackquill runs a finger along the edge of one of the shrink-wrapped albums. Klavier assumes it's one that he himself picked out for Kristoph. His brother, though demanding when it came to Klavier becoming a well-rounded musician, just didn't spend the time __listening__ to it, certainly not to the degree Klavier did. That he had more than ten albums other than the ones Klavier had bought for or gifted to him was something close to miraculous.

"Like I said, I can't toss them in the trash. I wouldn't, ever."

"But you can not keep all of them, either."

"Then I'll keep some of them? Half?"

"Five. You may keep five," Blackquill concedes. "We will sort them. Since I am seeing Athena and her friends tomorrow, perhaps two albums each, between the four of them, and myself; that makes ten total. The rest I will try to sell for you. Athena often speaks of going to a record store near her apartment; I'm sure they will take these, if only for a few pence each."

"Blackquill..." He's done pleading; this is a warning.

" _ _Or__ we will put them in the break room at the office, free to a good home. Heaven knows how much our coworkers enjoy pilfering lunches and snacks from the refrigerator, even when labeled. I'm sure these will be gone by week's end."

Klavier waffles over Blackquill's proposal. It's nothing he couldn't have come up with, only something he refused to. It really __is__ the best option. Not the easiest, but the best.

He finally lowers the violin, holding it by its neck at his side. When he's able to meet Blackquill's eyes, something in them calms him, telling him that this is not a task he is to undertake alone.

"Alright. So... how do we do this, exactly?" Klavier's not quite sure how to decide to part with music; he's never __wanted__ to. The multiple CD towers in his bedroom and office, the shelves stocked full of vinyls here in the living room all attest to that.

"Like this." Blackquill selects the first album, and lifts it to show Klavier. It's the full score of the __Swan Lake__ ballet, as performed by the London Symphony Orchestra. "Who would enjoy this the most?'

Klaver doesn't even have to think. "I know Fräulein Newman would like that. She's told me she listens to classical music sometimes when she paints."

"Alright." Blackquill sets the album aside, and picks up the next one. He shows it to Klavier but doesn't give him the chance to voice his opinion. "Consider wisely before you suggest Athena be the recipient of this."

Klavier grins, with the quartet on the album cover grinning back at him. They're made even shinier by the shrink-wrap enhancing their blond, Nordic features. "Fräulein Woods, then." Klavier can't help himself, adding by way of the group's song, "'But if you change your mind, I'm the first in line—'"

"Silence!"

The process continues. Six albums are set aside for Blackquill's friends, three sorted into the giveaway pile. Surprisingly, Klavier doesn't feel a strong desire to keep any for himself. With each album, it becomes easier to decide, and Klavier even begins enjoying himself, if for only how Blackquill reads each album title with such __formality__.

They're more than halfway through, and a collection of the NPR station's latest in-studio performances is placed into the stack for O'Conner. Blackquill reaches for the next album, but pauses, his head tilting slightly as he examines it. And doesn't remove it.

"What?" Klavier asks, puzzled by Blackquill's sudden seriousness.

Blackquill doesn't say anything. He lifts the album, and before he even turns it to show Klavier the cover, Klavier recognizes it.

 _ _13 Years Hard Time for Love__. Limited edition. Still in the cellophane wrap. Unopened, un _ _listened.__

"Let me see." Three simple words. All strangled as Klavier forces them out.

Klavier sets the violin beside its case so he can take the album and have his fear confirmed. His fear of __which__ single, specific copy it is. The one with a personal autograph—or, less an autograph and more a message.

 _ _To my #1 fan__

 _ _From his #1 fan__  
 _ _  
__And then Klavier's name, signed with a large, flourishing heart beside it. His love for Kristoph bleeding red and unapologetically.

And promptly packed away.

But he was young and naive—that's what he can say now, hindsight being 20/20. A stupid teenager who didn't __know__ any better, and just wanted his brother's approval.

Who grew into a stupid, naive adult, who __still__ doesn't know any better, and __aches__ for his brother's approval.

"Gavin..." Blackquill starts, cautious and even, as if approaching a wounded animal.

"Just get rid of this one." Klavier uses his thumbnail to slit the wrapping open along a corner, and peels a large scrap of it away. It cuts his signature in half. He crumples the wrap, along with his adoring words, up. Squeezes it in his fist, once, and over and over, tighter each time. "With the nail polish, and—"

"Or, I'll take it," Blackquill offers. "The album, that is. I'm not that familiar with your catalogue of music. Athena's been trying to catch me up on all that I've missed, but—"

"I'll get you your own albums, __Herr Schwarz__. Just get rid of this one." He reaches out the album for Blackquill, and Blackquill, so eager for Klavier to eradicate anything even slightly Kristoph-related from his apartment, takes it with great reluctance and slips it back where it came from.

Klavier drops the balled-up cellophane into the container. It falls among everything else Kristoph kept tucked away, all these expendable __things__ : a corkscrew, nail polish, a little brother and his love.

He can't quit staring down at the album the way one does when at a particularly bloody crime scene, so sickening and __magnetic__ in how raw and telling it is. "You know what's on there, Blackquill?"

"Pardon?"

"That album. It's limited edition. We hit it big before the album was even released, __ja__? Just our singles, you know that, right?"

"Er... yes. I... believe so." Blackquill likely doesn't, but neither does Klavier care about what Blackquill knows, or has to say, at this point.

"We did a pre-order," Klavier goes on. "First ten thousand pre-orders received a limited edition album, with a few bonus tracks that didn't make the final cut. Well, I kept one of the copies. For Kristoph."

"I see," Blackquill acknowledges. "In that case, I would like to hear them. You've a phonograph somewhere in here, I assume. Let us—"

Klavier talks over him, a runaway train full-speed along its rails. "We covered this eighties ballad Daryan and I always liked. Had a string arrangement in it, __ja__? Violin, actually. __I__ played it, on the album recording. Our record label didn't want it on the final edition—our first album, covers weren't the best idea, not until we were more established, but... I wanted it, so bad. __Because__ of the strings. For Kristoph. To show how much I appreciated him forcing me to play this."

Trading the album for the violin, Klavier brings the prized instrument back to its playing position. He can still imagine being in the studio, eyes closed and letting his fingers take over, both on the strings and the bow. The bewitching melody, low and tender, of that song that touched him so deeply. Pushing tears to his eyes over being given the opportunity to make it is his own, and even more, to share it with the world.

To share it with who was __his__ world at the time. Kristoph.

"And he told me he liked it, when I asked him about the album, what he thought of it. He told me he __liked__ it, Blackquill. He __lied__ to me." His words all come out fast, like ripping off a band-aid. But the pain is nowhere near as brief. "He's __always__ lied to me."

His grip tightens around the violin's neck, the taut strings digging into his fingers. When was the last time he felt this much disbelief? Was it when Lamiroir named Daryan as her assailant? Because his mind is filling with the same grating, squealing static, and distorting everything around him.

His voice relaxes; his heartrate and nerves do not.

"He never listened to it," Klavier says again, more into the open than to Blackquill. "I recorded it __for__ him—made it part of a __special edition__ , for him. And he __never listened to it.__ "

Blackquill stands, but does not approach Klavier. Yet. His gaze locks onto Klavier's hand, which is clamping the violin much like Blackquill had the knife. Tighter, even. "Gavin..."

Klavier takes a step backward, stumbling against the storage unit. Blackquill begins to lift his hand, to reach towards Klavier as if to, as he's become skilled in doing, steady him.

Or to take the violin.

To take Kristoph's violin.

No one will take it from him. Not even Kristoph, who's already taken so __so__ much.

The static spikes, blasts up to eleven. Klavier whirls and turns the violin around in his hands, holding it like a sledgehammer and bringing it above his head in the same manner.

Blackquill shouts something, or maybe it's just a shout. Klavier can't make it out over the crashing, shattering of the violin upon the top of the storage cube. Sharp pain zings through Klavier's hand, the violin having grazed the case and sending a reverberation back through him. Klavier shoves it off the cube, and the album is still there, undamaged, which isn't __right at all__. He knocks that off as well, and lifts the mangled violin to smash it again when he's being dragged away bodily.

"No, Gavin... KLAVIER!" Blackquill's arms around are Klavier, restraining him. They end up only a few feet away, but far enough that Klavier can't make contact with anything other than the wall if he were able to swing the violin.

Klavier tries to fight out of Blackquill's hold on him, but it turns more into him flailing around a violin that is in two halves, held together only by its strings. "He's such a goddamn lying piece of shit! And I fucking... __Gott__ , Simon, what did I __do__?!"

Blackquill manages to wrench the broken violin from Klavier, throwing it aside unceremoniously. In doing so, he releases Klavier, who stumbles away. Klavier thinks there might be tears lining Blackquill's eyes, but he can't tell with his own vision wet and blurry.

"Nothing, I swear to you. There is nothing you did that warrants... any of this." Before Klavier can pick and scrape at every little inconsistency in those statements, Blackquill is apologizing. "I am sorry, Gavin-dono. This is not what I wished for; I only was trying to __help__ , to... not for this to happen, I can assure you. I hadn't any idea."

Ach, his hand still __hurts__. And he can't look at Blackquill, too embarrassed by his outburst to do. It didn't even feel like something he __did__ , almost as if he'd been... possessed. This ugly, __evil__ part of him, once untapped but now surfacing. It ran through __Mutti__ , and Kristoph, and it's running through him, too.

But Blackquill's still here. Not shying away, when he's likely blaming himself every bit as much as Klavier is.

"That's the thing." Klavier stares at violin on the floor, past Blackquill's feet. "Of course you didn't have any idea. No one ever did, with Kristoph. __I__ never did, anyway."

"I still... I am sorry. Truly. That at every turn, no matter what path to freedom you seek, you find yourself so... overcome." Blackquill inches closer to Klavier. He is not one to demonstrate affection, platonic or otherwise, through physical gestures but it's as if he's debating whether this should be an exception. "It is not an exaggeration when I say that I hate to see you like this, Gavin-dono."

"I hate it too," Klavier says. "And you know what's the worst part of it? If anything, I should hate __Kristoph__ for it. But I don't." He rubs his sore hand with his uninjured one. His face is warm and now it's damp too. "You know, I hate everything about him, but I don't hate __him__. I can't. Not when I miss him so much. He's my __brother__."

The disdain emanating from Blackquill is like a storm, darkening his features as he draws nearer to Klavier. For the first time since shearing his hair, the Twisted Samurai makes his return.

"I will say this once, and it would behoove you to listen closely: he is not your brother. That is, you and he will forever be linked genetically—that is unavoidable, a biological fact. I too have an older sibling, and I think of myself as one, in every facet of the word, when it comes to Athena. For you to use that term for yourself in conjunction with Kristoph Gavin... I know you are not intending to upset me, but it __does__. Every time I hear it, my ire towards him and the horrors he inflicted upon you and others—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally; it grows, festers like an open wound."

The way his monologue ends... it's not admonishing Klavier; it's __sad__ , where Klavier has been but could not properly express because he __can't__ say those things about a brother who was such an integral part of his life.

"Blackquill," Klavier starts. "I..."

"Silence!" Blackquill commands, presumably of the mind Klavier means to dismiss him. "You need to hear this, Gavin-dono, because you do not hear __yourself__ , see yourself when you speak of him! The fear, the confusion... that is a brother, to you? Who made you react so alarmingly? One who nurtures only feelings of crippling hopelessness within you?"

 _ _Crippling. Hopeless__. He'll have to remember those terms for when he sees his counselor again. The words from Blackquill alone stir more inside him than he's allowed himself to demonstrate in past sessions. Frustration, yes, and regret; they've spilled forth. But this naked, almost child-like sadness touching the edges of Blackquill's questions?

No. Not until now.

"It's what I know," Klavier replies truthfully. Quietly, hoping Blackquill can't hear the shame.

Blackquill gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. "But it is not, in the least. You said you do not hate him, and therefore, you have already proven to be beyond his complete control. And so long as you stay firm in that—as I know you will, Gavin-dono, because you do not have it within you to allow such hatred to take root—you will __not__ be the replica you see yourself as. You are, and have been, more than he could hope to be, at least in the time we've known each other."

Klavier knows it's not a lie, any of what Blackquill is saying. He can't hate Kristoph, but he tricks himself into thinking, maybe sometimes, he really does. And it's mostly because... "When I told you it's not easy— _ _nothing__ is. You're right, I can't hate him, but I haven't been able to forgive him either."

"Nor should you! You need not do __anything__ in regards to Kristoph—not forgive, not love or hate, not __anything__. Why not spare some of that forgiveness for yourself? I admit, it is something I am struggling with myself, separating my own identity from who another person made me believe I was, but I've concluded that it ultimately can __not__ involve them. Only myself."

The throbbing in Klavier's hand begins to dull, as does all the tension coiling throughout his body. He palms at his face when a few more tears trickle out.

Tears that are neither sad nor angry. A watery smile forms.

"I guess I'm not really helping myself, like you said. But ah...?" Klavier trails off when Blackquill crouches to gather up the violin pieces.

"Oh, I would question that," Blackquill says with a smirk. The violin __sproiinngs__ as he tugs at its limply connected parts. "I would not advise for you to make a habit of such... drastic methods. But I am not condemning you for this particular instance. Still, it will not do to leave this task unfinished. We have come this far; let us complete our mission, so as not to revisit it."

They take the next several minutes to transfer what has been designated trash (Blackquill's severed ponytail included) to the garbage bag in the kitchen. In the now-empty container, Blackquill makes one stack of the albums already selected for Fräulein Cykes and her friends. The other stack is the remaining albums, that Klavier is too emotionally spent to bother going through. He instructs Blackquill to just let the foursome root around on their own, and any remnants can be brought along with the three different albums by a frizzy-haired saxophone player, already destined for the office break room.

Blackquill cinches up the trash bag that is poking out in odd places due to its contents, and looks to Klavier. "I will take this down to the alley. You may take a few minutes to... well, tend to yourself, if need be. As Athena often iterates to me via mobile messaging, I shall 'birb'."

Blackquill is out the door before Klavier can decipher his promise of "be right back." With a laugh, he takes up Blackquill's suggestion and finds his way to the bathroom to wash up. His reflection shows the wear and tear of the morning's events, and a swipe of eyeliner around each eye makes him relatively less of a nightmare to look at.

He fixes his hair too, loosening it from its bun and tying it into a low ponytail similar to what Blackquill used to sport. It still feels like there is a stranger staring back at him, but it's maybe the first time in what's been almost two hellish years that the stranger is someone Klavier thinks he'd like to get to know.

And the notion grows, spreads like a slow chant in an arena begging for an encore.

Klavier bolts from the bathroom, to what was listed as the second bedroom but for him is a studio. At this point, it's become more of a mausoleum, all the the expensive equipment stationed throughout, the awards and gold records adorning the shelves and walls honoring his late, lamented, career.

That he may, if only for a few hours, be able to revive.

Partially scratched-in sheet music lays strewn about the cluttered desk, and he grabs one at random. A pen, or pencil, it doesn't matter; he snatches up the closest writing instrument. With the black sharpie, he begins scribbling into the margins, into whatever scales are empty enough to accommodate it.

On the left, he repeats the word __stranger__ in a column, four times. On the right-hand side, he rapidly fires out words that fit both definitions of the word, in semi-related clusters, and other words that could fit into the overarching theme of what he has in mind. __Life, love. Me, you, I__. __Truth, fiction, lies. Mind, thoughts, think/ing. Music, words, sung/sing.__

This could work, this is something. __Stranger__ , what he feels to himself, to the world; what Kristoph is even more so, to him. __Stranger__ , as an adjective to describe what his life has become when compared to fiction.

Sharpie still in hand, he shoots over to the bookshelf that's crammed with everything from theory to compiliations from music publications. He finds it almost immediately, the thick, marine-blue binder filled with "works in progress."

Not all of them are his; some are Daryan's—he was always better at writing music, translating it to tablatures without needing lyrics to accompany it. Klavier was always lyrics first, and this is only an exception because there is a particular tab that is in here __somewhere__ , that is one of those arrangements he wasn't willing to waste on just __anything__.

 _ _Yes__! He all but rips it out, doesn't even bother putting the binder away and leaves it open on the desk, dropping the Sharpie along with it.

This will certainly be acoustic, just him and his six strings, and what he'd thought had been a waste of time—tuning his guitars each month—is maybe the one thing he's done right in the past several months. He retrieves his favorite (not that he'd say it out loud; the others would hear), the jet-black dreadnought with a rich burgundy Gavinners G spray-painted on its body and bordered by stars in a variety of sizes. He's thankful he's never fallen out of the habit of tucking any picks he might find into the necks of his beautiful babies; there's three in his beloved __Sternchen__.

He takes a seat on the floor, cross-legged with __Sternchen__ in his lap, the scratch sheet and tabs pinned down in front of him by his feet.

Starting right in, it only takes three strums until Klavier realizes that, first of all, he'll have to rearrange this into a minor key, to carry the heavy, haunting sense of discomfort that he knows will bleed through every second of the song.

He restarts, in that minor key. And again, again, piecing together some of the keywords into what __might__ work in the context of lyrics.

This is just like it used to be, except the part where he's going it alone. Not forcing out lines as some sort of assignment, but his mind working on autopilot and his fingers along for the ride as he __creates__ , throws out all the ideas at once, seeing what sticks to his guitar.

"Gavin?" Blackquill's voice carries to him. Klavier didn't even hear the door open.

"In here!"

Blackquill appears in the doorway, blinking down at what is surely a sight. Klavier Gavin in his pajamas, holding his guitar and sitting on the floor surrounded by sheet music.

"I've been inspired," explains Klavier. He motions up towards the desk. "Hand me that Sharpie, __ja__?"

Blackquill does, and Klavier pens in a couple more words, and even phrases this time. "Ah. And here I was about to ask if you were planning to drive me home. Not that I wish for you to, if you're not... in a place to, but..."

"No, no! I want you to hear this, Blackquill. __Bitte__ , take a seat. Listen." Klavier gestures to the ergonomic leather chair, a more compact model of the one in his office.

"Alright. Although I don't understand how you've found inspiration in this short window of time. " Blackquill lowers into the chair. He tests its support, pressing forward and back in it. "...Why do you own chairs nicer than all the belongings I've ever had put together?"

Klavier laughs. "Help me with this song and I'll give you half the writing credit, and then maybe you could afford your own. I think I have a hit in the making here."

These angsty, introspective songs never earned the Gavinners even a quarter of the accolades of their face-melting counterparts. But Blackquill doesn't know that.

Blackquill wouldn't be obliging him out of pity—if anything he'd be far more adamant about being driven home, presuming Klavier might need a breather. He appears genuinely interested, if mildly perplexed, at Klavier's invitation.

"Now, what do you think sounds better? Stran- _ _jer__ ," Klavier stresses the second syllable, voice lilting up as he reflects as much in the chord he plays. "Or __strain__ -ger?" He emphasizes the first syllable, his next strum mirroring that.

"I... I've no preference. They both sound acceptable."

 _ _Accept__ , Klavier jots down onto his ever-growing list. "Thank you."

Blackquilll sighs. "Perhaps, Gavin-dono, I could assist more ably if I knew what it sounded like. This song. You instructed me to listen, and if I'm to do so, I would like to __hear__ something."

Klavier doesn't say anything, only looks up at his dear friend. Nothing is easy, he kept telling Blackquill. Last night, this morning—none of it was. And yet, this moment, the two of them here. In each other's company. It __is__ easy, for Klavier. Strange, but easy. And just very...

 _ _Nice,__ he adds to the scratch sheet. __Easy, new__.

He's not sure if Blackquill can see his scribblings, but he also doesn't care. Let him see, let him know that after all the hell of last night, Klavier can still unearth some of the __nice__ buried down deep beneath it.

"You know..." Klavier starts strumming lightly, just the first chord over and over, at different tempos. Background music as he delivers an important message. "I __do__ want you to hear this when it's complete, Blackquill, but as for this stage in the process... maybe I should ask Fräulein Woods. She's quite the singer herself. Or Fräulein Newman, as a fellow artist."

"Perhaps," Blackquill agrees with a nod.

"Tomorrow, even," Klavier suggests. "After the movie. That is, if I'm able to develop enough worth sharing today."

A second, two, pass before recognition crosses Blackquill's face. Then, that __aha!__ in his eyes, in the slight rise of his brows. "I have faith you will accomplish just that.

Klavier strums harder, looping a few more chords in. __Sternchen__ sounds as brilliant as always, a worthy companion. "I... I can't help but wonder though, what Kristoph would think of how I treated his violin."

"Of course," says Blackquill. There is caution in both his tone and expression that telegraph his reservations about dampening the mood. "It's only natural that you—"

"And I've decided that whatever he'd think, I don't give a fuck." The strumming crescendos, and Klavier shreds out the best arpeggio lick he can manage on an acoustic. He smoothly wraps back around to the beginning, and plays, this time, for real.

Blackquill watches with a crooked smirk that sticks as Klavier launches into a __horrible__ , tangled chorus he makes up completely on the spot.

It's everything Klavier can do not to laugh as it spirals into an unintelligible mess. He stops abruptly, knowing Blackquill is still his attentive audience, and adjusts his finger. He shifts into the same disco-pop tune he'd graced Blackquill with while sorting the vinyls. Blackquill's eyes widen, his smile dimming momentarily but returning as Klavier's voice grows stronger, clearer through the song's multi-layered melody.

And as the song requests, Klavier takes a chance. He plays on. Catching Blackquill's eye as he does, he returns the closed-mouth smile highlighting Blackquill's fresh new look with one of his own.

Damn all the damage caused by the poor decisions from Klavier's yesterdays, and damn the inevitable Kristoph-induced misery lurking in the shadows of his tomorrows.

There are too many songs left to be sung, and even if it's completely for the hell of it, today Klavier Gavin will live to sing them.


End file.
